


mindhunter tumblr prompts

by princesskay



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2021-04-17
Packaged: 2021-04-22 22:29:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 56
Words: 107,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22217824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: All the little fics I've written based off tumblr prompts in one place!
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Comments: 236
Kudos: 244





	1. you make the whole world disappear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt: re: that last gifset of bill and Holden in the hotel - I’m spiraling just imagining Holden (or my own thirsty ass) running hands under Bill’s disheveled collar and tryna destress him from the day. Lord help me

“How are things at home?”

Bill glances up sharply over the top of his reading glasses as Holden’s question interrupts their clincial, psychological conversation about the profile. He’s standing there in the doorway of the bathroom, his mouth rosy from brushing his teeth. His undershirt is tucked into the front of his pajama pants, probably intentionally, but its undeniably dorky in an endearing sort of way.

“You just seem stressed, that’s all.” Holden says, taking Bill’s hesitation as annoyance.

“I’m fine. You don’t have to check up on me.”

Holden wanders across the room, his hands swinging loosely at his sides. As he reaches the bed, his teeth purse gently against his lower lip while his eyes graze down Bill’s face and chest.

Bill swallows against the sudden, hot fist of need in his belly. Funny Holden should mention home, then give Bill a look that makes him want to think about anything but his family.

“I think we’ve talked about the case long enough.” Holden says, reaching down to slide the file from Bill’s lap. Crime scene photos spill across the bedsheets, but neither of them bother to glance over at the dead bodies unraveled beside their heated glances.

Lifting his leg over Bill’s lap, Holden settles down on his thighs with a deep sigh.

“Don’t you?” Holden mutters, his voice going low in a way it only does when they’re alone.

“Mhm.” Bill manages a choked sound as Holden’s weight rocks forward against his groin.

Holden’s palms slide up his chest, and delve beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. His fingers span Bill’s shoulders, and squeeze down gently against the knotted tension.

Bill grabs at Holden’s waist, jolting him forward as they both lean in for a kiss at the same moment. Whatever stress was tied up in Bill’s shoulders let’s loose, lost in the sweet escape of Holden’s mouth. He doesn’t think about the case or home again. Holden has a way of making the whole world disappear.


	2. blue or gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: There’s this song from Jaymay ‘Grey or Blue’ and there’s this particular line: ‘But your sweatshirt says it all with the hood over your face And I can't keep staring at your mouth without wondering how it tastes’ and I can’t help but imagine Holden coming all sweaty from a run in a grey FBI hoodie and Bill not able to not stare at him thinking these words. I’m so helplessly in love with them 😭

Bill gets to work early that Monday morning, eager to stave off the load of paperwork mounting on his desk that he’d left over the weekend. Between interviews and consults, their schedule is fully booked for the next three months at least. These 7am’s, hunched over the typewriter with last week’s case demanding documentation, a mug of coffee and a pack of cigarettes clutched in his hand, are starting to look like the new normal. Still, he’d rather be here early when no one else is around to bother him; to be honest, he’d rather be here than at home, staring at the empty walls in silence. 

He’s just gotten into the particulars of their recent trip to Montana and the little town of Jubilee that had turned to a slaying field for a senseless killer when the door of the BSU basement swings open. Bill cuts a glare over his shoulder, but his annoyance at being disturbed at such an early hour comes to a cold halt when he sees Holden wander through the door. 

“Oh, hey, Bill.” Holden says, his tone casual despite his panting. 

He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt with the FBI insignia printed in faded blue on the front. The hood is still draped over his sweat-soaked curls, framing out the lively, pink luster on his cheeks. Bill’s gaze is quickly drawn lower, however, to the skimpy pair of navy blue track shorts that barely reach midway down his thighs. 

“Holden.” Bill says, slowly. “What are you doing here so early?” 

Holden wanders across the bullpen to his side. “I like to go for a run around the track before work. It helps clear my head.” 

Bill stiffens as Holden draws closer. He smells like the sweet, ripe scent of outdoors in the summer, underlined by sticky, exhilarated sweat. There’s something primal about the saccharine combination that goes directly to his head. 

Holden lifts his left foot, and braces his tennis shoe against the edge of Bill’s desk. He bounces slightly, stretching his flank while he uncaps his water bottle and takes a drink. 

Bill watches the slick length of his throat bob as he swallows. His mouth comes away pink, gasping quietly in satisfaction, and glistening with water. Suddenly, Bill wants nothing more than to know what those lips taste like, a longing so abrupt and intense that he has to grip the arms of his chair to keep himself from bolting to his feet and acting on it. He shoves the impulse down hard. Friendships can get ruined with just one kiss, and he needs Holden’s friendship. Right now, their work is the only thing keeping him sane. 

“Do you mind?” He asks, conjuring a disgruntled tone as he glares at Holden’s tennis shoe on the corner of the desk. 

Holden drops his foot to the ground, instead turning to lean his backside in its place. 

“Why are you here so early?” 

“Just trying to get some work done, if you don’t mind.” Bill says, “We’ve got a full schedule this week.” 

“I think you need another one of those.” Holden says, gesturing at Bill’s half-empty coffee cup. 

“What I need is for you to stop distracting me.” 

Holden huffs a chuckle.

“And get your half-naked ass off my desk.” Bill adds, the words biting past his teeth with more agony than he’d intended to let on.

“Half-naked…” Holden begins to protest, glancing down at the shorts riding dangerously up his thighs. 

“Are those Quantico-issue?” Bill presses, “You’re not leaving much to imagination.” 

“Everybody wears these.” Holden says, sounding innocent despite the hand cruising down his pale thigh. 

Bill grunts a sound of frustration, and turns back to his typewriter. 

“Are my legs distracting you?” 

Bill draws in a deep breath, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He wants to stand up and grab Holden by the throat. The urge to kiss him is still strong, lurching just underneath the urge to slap his smart mouth. In either scenario, Holden would probably look at him with those wide blue eyes that sometimes look gray in just the right light. Nothing is ever his fault. 

“No.” Bill says, at last. “I would just really like to get this paperwork finished before everyone else gets here. That was my plan until you showed up.” 

“Fine.” Holden mutters, shoving off the desk. “I’ll get out of your hair.” 

He walks away, and Bill fights the desire to turn around and watch his backside. He knows the shape of it because he watches it every day, or at least tries not to. He doesn’t breathe until he hears Holden grab his backpack with his work clothes from his desk, and the leave the basement again. 

The sound of the door slamming behind him echoes into the hollow silence, overlapping with the frenetic tremor of Bill’s heartbeat. He opens his eyes to focus on the last word he’d written on the report: mutilated. He tells himself to think about that brutal word, and nothing else. Eventually, his blood cools. 

When Holden returns fully dressed an hour later, the basement feels like a safe space again. The veil of professionalism is between them again, and Bill can breathe. He can look at Holden, and think it’s not so bad of a trespass. He can look until the danger of taking what he wants fades behind the subdued gray in Holden’s eyes. 


	3. effort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from nicishi: Kay, you know by now how obsessed I am with Mindhunter, but maybe basically I’m obsessed with Jonathan Groff and while rewatching Looking the scene when Kevin says to Patrick ‘Do you know how much effort it takes to be around you every day?’ ‘Effort?’ ‘It takes all of my willpower not to lunge and kiss the fucking shit out of you.’ This is just Bill talking to Holden, right??? I should really be sleeping by now

Late evening sunlight spills in fragmented, yellow fingers across the bedspread as Bill listens to the dial tone hum against his ear. His throat thickens against the taste of smoke going stale on his tongue, his forgotten cigarette dangling against his knuckles and building ash. He drops the receiver to the cradle, appreciates the angry clatter of plastic. He can see dust motes floating through the air against the wash of a beautiful, Alabama sunset. 

They’re fresh off the visit to Altoona, the first real exercise of their new skillset. It’s the third week of December, borderline on Christmas, a late evening after road school, and the rest of their day is to be spent in this little motel just off the highway, dead hours until the flight home in the morning. 

Nancy was on the other end of the line just before she hung up. No goodbye. No I love you. These long hours are hard on him, but even harder on her. She detests being home alone, and he doesn’t blame her - he has Holden on his side of it to slake the dark pit of solitude, the itch of a dissatisfied heart beating against impending aloneness. 

He doesn’t give much thought to Nancy leaving him, only shoves it to the back of his mind; but it’s always there, a distant possibility. Right beside Holden, this odd little square trying to shove himself into a round hole, trying desperately to be something, succeeding in being something to Bill if only a pebble in his shoe. Really succeeding in being much more, a wash of red lathered over the drab grays and blacks Bill’s life has become. 

Huffing a sigh, Bill takes his cigarettes and his half-drunk beer out of the hotel room. Down the cracked, uneven sidewalk, the path leads to the gated pool area. The chain link fence does a poor job of blocking off the sightline to the pool, giving anyone walking by a clear glimpse of the half-naked body cutting through the aquamarine blue water. 

Bill shoves open the gate, and shuffles across the coarse cement tiles to the edge of the pool. 

Holden swims from the other end of the pool in his direction, body cutting a foaming line down the center of the water. He’s pale and sleek in the splash of blue, muscles rippling with every stroke. 

Bill sucks on his cigarette until Holden reaches his end of the pool, and comes out of the water gasping in a breath of air. His fingers cling to the ceramic lip of the pool as Bill gazes down at him, taking in the wet, plastered hair, and eyes so painfully blue against the backdrop of pool water and red, bloodshot veins irritated by chlorine. 

“Are you going to join me?” Holden asks, wiping a hand over his face and mouth. 

“No.” Bill says. “I’m good right here.” _ I’d prefer to watch._

He swallows hard against the thought, and cuts a glance away. 

Holden drags himself out of the water, and onto the side of the pool. His feet dangle in the water, gently kicking against the soft lap of minor waves. 

“I’ve been thinking about Altoona.” Holden says. 

“Yeah?” Bill grunts as he sits down next to Holden. 

He rolls his pantlegs up, and slips his feet into the water. Holden casts him a curious, sideways glance. His mouth purses against a smile. Their shoulders are nearly touching. 

“What about it?” Bill asks. 

“None of it makes sense. We’re missing something.” 

Bill takes a swig of his beer. It tastes bitter against the warm breeze and salty scent of chlorine radiating off of Holden’s bare skin. His skin prickles with goosebumps as tiny droplets of water journey down his chest, barely making it to his belly before they’re lapped up by the humidity. 

Bill thinks it must be snowing back home, but here it’s hot - too hot. 

“Don’t you think?” 

Bill flushes as Holden’s question brings his eyes back up. Holden regards him calmly, eyes serene blue, lips pink and shuddering against the breeze. 

_Fuck me_. Bill thinks. With the memory of his brief conversation with Nancy simmering in the back of his mind, all he can think about is Sacramento, and how he’d told Holden he liked his wife, that he was lucky to have her. He could have said_ I’m fucking unhappy_. But he couldn’t, and now he missed that chance. 

“Yeah, we’re missing something.” Bill mutters. 

Holden’s shoulder leans into him. A little bit of moisture seeps through Bill’s shirtsleeve from his skin, a latent fingerprint left at a crime scene. 

Bill could have stopped himself, but he doesn’t want to. He slips his hand up Holden’s bare, slick spine, his touch light and swift. Holden is shuddering but barely protesting by the time it reaches his nape, and pulls him in. 

The kiss is brief and gentle, Bill’s mouth pressing against Holden’s in a desperate, silent cry, the only form of communication that he can manage. _I’m fucking unhappy. But not with you. I need you. I want you so badly it hurts. _

Holden’s mouth tastes like chlorine and the sweet tinge of saliva. It’s all Bill’s racing senses can gather before he’s forced to pull back, propelled by his own jolting panic. 

Holden stares at him, his mouth hanging open, his eyes blinking against the dribble of water making its way across the dark fringe of his eyelashes. 

“Fuck.” Bill says, heat rushing to his chest. He can’t mold the humiliation into anything else, so he fashions this flash of fire into anger. “Do you have any fucking idea the effort it takes to be with you every single day?” 

“Effort?” Holden’s voice is trembling. 

“To not do that.” Bill says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus. I’m a fucking idiot.” 

Holden stammers as Bill climbs to his feet, and takes a staggered step back from the edge of the pool. 

“Bill, I-”

“No.” Bill says, holding up a hand. “We’re not talking about this. I’m going back inside. Just put some fucking clothes on before you come in for the night.” 

He turns and walks away from the pool, every inch of him shaking with a hot burst of shock and shame. He thinks that Holden probably isn’t going to let this go. He’s like a dog with a bone; once his jaw locks, there’s no changing his mind. But Bill has to argue that maybe whatever respect Holden has for him might keep him from demanding answers - for now. The logic feels like a toothpick holding back a storm. 

Bill shoves his way past the gate, hearing the quiet splash as Holden slides back into the water. 


	4. ripe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: “If you weren't driving, I'd kiss you senseless," I tell him. He swerves to the side of the road and stops the car abruptly. "Not driving any more.”

In Atlanta, everything thickens. The air. Dread. Sweat. Blood. Tears. The widening gap between them. 

Holden isn’t quite sure where everything went so terribly wrong, but it starts to creep up on him like the shadow of a cloud blocking out the sun. Maybe it started with Kemper and Vacaville, his own numerous shortcomings, or maybe Bill simply got tired of him. Maybe he was never anything more than a distraction, something to fill in the loneliness when things with Nancy got rough. Either way, Bill hasn’t touched him in what feels like ages, and it’s starting to feel like he never will again. 

It’s the first week of bridge surveillance, and they’re both exhausted, on edge. By the misfortune of narrow statistics, they’re stuck in a car together for the second night in a row. 

Bill is driving to the bridge with the window down, smoking, and blowing ash into the dead of the night. The air is heavy with humidity, the thick saccharine smell before a summer rainfall. Holden can feel the tacky layer of sweat already forming underneath of his shirt, and he dreads the night ahead, the vacant silences, the unforgiving heat, the heat always between them, the sting of it lingering like an open wound on the soft underside of his jaw. 

“I could have really used your help last week.” Holden says, because he can’t bite it down any longer. “You wouldn’t believe the red tape I was swimming through trying to get the crosses approved.” 

“And you think I could have cut through it any better than you?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Holden says, “People listen to you.” 

“Do they?” Bill’s eyes cuts through the alternating light and shadow of passing streetlamps to pin Holden with a pointed glare. 

“The people who matter.” 

Bill scoffs, quietly. “Since when have you listened to me?” 

Holden bites his lower lip, and smooths the front of his tie. “Are you saying that … that I matter to you?” 

“You’re my partner. Of course you matter to me.” 

“Apparently not enough.” Holden mutters. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing. Nevermind.” Holden says, rubbing a hand over his forehead. His stomach roils - the truth is writhing around somewhere down there, begging to be heard. He wants to vomit it up, onto Bill’s lap, where he couldn’t ignore it any longer. 

Bill exhales a frustrated sigh, “Not that I have to explain myself to you, but I have some shit going on right now. You would understand if you had a family.” 

Holden shakes his head, swallowing back a hasty retort. He wants to say that he doesn’t care about Bill’s family - not in a callous way, just in a way that means Bill doesn’t have to hide whatever he has going on. Nothing could change the way he feels right now, desperate like a junkie looking for his next high, skin itching and singing for Bill’s touch, the only drug he’s ever been addicted to. 

“What?” Bill demands, his palm slapping against the leather of the steering wheel. 

“Nothing. I’m sure whatever it is, it’s important.” Holden says, “Important enough to hide from me.” 

“Don’t make this about you.” 

Holden casts him a glare, but Bill’s expression isn’t angry. He just looks tired. The lines of his face deeper, the blue of his eyes more faded in the shadows, the bow of his lips sad and begging something tender. 

“I’m not. I don’t care. Whatever it is, I don’t care.” Holden says, “If you weren’t driving right now, I’d-”

“You’d what?” 

“I’d kiss you. I’d kiss you senseless.” 

Bill’s eyes flick between Holden and the road ahead for a long moment before his jaw clenches. His fingers flex around the wheel. 

Holden feels the weight of his foot on the brake pedal. There’s a faint squeal of tires as Bill decelerates the car quickly, and pulls off to the side of the road. The car lurches to a stop, and he throws the gearshift into park. 

Leaning back in his seat, he spread his hands. “There. Not driving anymore.” 

Holden stares at him, breathing heavily. He hadn’t expected Bill to call his bluff. He hadn’t expected this opportunity to rise out of the terror of the city at night. 

He lunges across the car before he can stop himself, and lands against Bill’s chest with a grunt. Their mouths collide as Bill leans in to catch him, and Holden feels the pinch of his teeth just before their lips settle into a hungry, aching stroke against one another. 

Holden fumbles to unbuckle his seatbelt. Bill’s arms wrap around him, dragging him closer as the belt snaps free from Holden’s lap, and hits the car door with a clatter. The weight of his palm surges up Holden’s back to clutch at his nape, claiming a firm grasp as the kiss lengthens into messy stroke of lips and tongue. 

Holden groans into Bill’s mouth. His heart is pounding. His whole body is pounding. Every inch of him suddenly feels sharply, brightly alive again, every spot where Bill’s skin is making contact with his own singing out in pleasure. 

Bill’s other hand grasps his jaw, gently prying their mouths apart. Their foreheads rest against one another as they breathe hard, staring into each others eyes in the cramped, dark space of the car. 

“Fuck. We have work to do.” Bill mumbles, his thumb stroking Holden’s cheek. 

“I know.” Holden whispers, pressing a brief kiss to the corner of Bill’s mouth. “Later?” 

“Mm. Later.” Bill grunts, nodding as his eyelids slip shut against the pulse of arousal. 

He pulls away, and Holden leans back against his seat, hand lingering at the sting on the lower lip. Bill is shifting in his seat, wincing as he pushes the heel of his hand against his crotch. 

Holden bites back a smile. 

Bill carefully shifts the car back into drive, and guides the vehicle onto the road again. The rest of the drive to the bridge is quiet, but this time, the silence isn’t deafening or weighted with dread. Holden slips his hand past the gearshift to rest his palm on Bill’s thigh. Bill doesn’t protest; he just keeps driving until the bridge looms ahead. By then, the night feels young, a ripe peach dribbling with possibility. 


	5. two insomniacs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from mymycorrhizae: Bill trying to keep the fact that Nancy left him after Atlanta a secret. But Holden picking up on the fact that something is wrong.

On a Saturday in June, most people are going for ice cream, running in the park, or playing a few rounds of put-put golf. For Holden, the dazzling sunlight is too bright against his aching eyes as he walks into Quantico to catch up on some paperwork left over from the previous week’s interview. He isn’t necessarily eager to be looking at dead bodies or the thoughts of a killer on a radiant summer day, but he has no other plans. If he stays at home alone for too long, his thoughts wind inward, down a dark and dismal path that somehow always finds its way back to the humid streets of Atlanta. **  
**

The basement is quiet when he arrives, but when he tries his key in the lock, the door is already open. A frown knits his brow as he slips inside, and wanders across the bullpen to his desk. The light in Bill’s office is on. 

Holden sets his briefcase down, and walks over to see Bill hunched over his desk. A cigarette is burning low between his fingers while he pours over a dismantled case file that includes photographs of intricate knots and white skin. 

“Bill, what are you doing here?” Holden asks. 

Bill startles, swiping his reading glasses from his face. “Holden. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry.” Holden says, “I didn’t think anyone else would be here.” 

“Just trying to get caught up on some work.” 

Curiosity sharpens in Holden’s chest as he draws closer, glimpsing the familiar crime scene photos that Bill always has in front of him when they’re not working on anything else. 

“On BTK?” 

Bill slaps the file shut. “I was just about to head out.”

Holden watches dubiously as Bill gets up, and swings his jacket from the back of his chair and over his shoulder. Smoke bleeds into the air from the cigarette dangling from his lips. The set of his jaw is tense, and he has bags under his eyes. Holden knows what sleeplessness looks like because he’s been far too acquainted with the dark hours of the night himself the past few weeks. 

“Is something going on with you?” Holden asks. 

Bill’s sigh punctuates the air. 

“I’m not trying to pry. I just thought with everything going on, you’d be at home with Brian and Nancy-”

Bill grabs his briefcase, and circles the desk to meet Holden’s eyes. His brow is furled defensively, and maybe Holden would have cowered from that glare a little while ago. The short-burnt fuse of Atlanta is narrow on both sides, though, and nothing could make him feel worse than he already does. 

“You’re right.” Bill says, sharply. “You shouldn’t pry because it’s none of your business how I spend my time with my family.”

Holden nods, clenching his jaw. “Something_ is_ going on.” 

“If you’re so sure, then figure it out yourself.” Bill says, shuffling past him. 

“You’ve been on edge ever since we got back.” Holden says, turning to address Bill’s retreating back. “You work late every night. When we were out of state last week, you didn’t call Nancy once - in fact, you didn’t even mention her. You’re wearing the same shirt you wore on Friday. You’re looking at _BTK_ when you would normally be at home on a weekend spending time with your son.” 

Bill pauses in the doorway of the office. His shoulders rise with a tense breath. For a moment, Holden expects him to turn around, and make some sort of confession. But perhaps that’s only what he wanted, not anticipated, because Bill turns the corner and keeps walking until the door slams shut behind him.

Holden sighs, quietly. The basement settles and groans around him, and he wishes he wasn’t the only one breaking down. 

~

Two weeks later, they’re called out to Oklahoma for a consult. Three young boys missing, presumed dead. They’re all white, but it doesn’t matter. It’s close enough. Holden quietly prays that none of them are floating down the river. 

A few days in, Holden walks down from his hotel room to the lobby where a continental breakfast is provided for guests. Bill is sitting at a corner table with a cup of coffee and a bagel in front of him. 

Holden snags coffee and a muffin from the bar, and walks over to Bill. 

“Mind if I sit here?” He asks. 

Bill waves a noncommittal hand. He looks dead tired. Dark circles under his eyes, pale skin, bloodshot eyes. Holden wonders if he got any more sleep than the four hours he managed to get himself. 

They eat in silence for a few moments. Bill lights a cigarette, and takes three slow drags before he casts Holden an exhausted gaze. His eyes are glassy, some vivid, aching brand of vulnerability that feels out of place in a hotel lobby. 

“Nancy left.” He says, quietly, almost so that Holden doesn’t hear him. 

Holden’s gaze shoots up from the crumbling remnants of his muffin. He swallows hard. 

Bill looks away, the corners of his eyes pinching as he exhales smoke. “When I came back from Atlanta, she was gone. The house was empty. She took everything.” 

“God, Bill …” Holden begins, his chest seizing with disbelief. 

Bill shakes his head. “I’m not sure what to do.” 

“I’m really sorry to hear that. Is there anything you need from me?” 

Bill’s mouth tips in a sad smile. “Just this, for right now. I really need to keep working, keep my mind off it.” 

“I can do that.” Holden says, “We don’t have to talk about it.” 

“Thanks.” Bill says. He leans forward to tap ashes into the tray at the middle of the table, and clears his throat. “Tell me what you’re thinking about the profile. It’s been two days, and I’m sure the commissioner will want to know what kind of direction we’re going in.” 

“Yes.” Holden says, “I’ve been thinking about the types of boys these are. None of them would have gone with a stranger. It had to have been someone they know.” 

The conversation carries on around the profile, and Holden feels himself begin to relax into the rhythm of their theorizing. He doesn’t relish Bill’s situation at all, but something about this feels normal, better than Atlanta, than the past few weeks. It feels like maybe he’ll get some sleep tonight.


	6. nothing left to fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: they wake up the morning after their first hookup and holden expects bill to be angry but it’s quite the opposite.

It doesn’t happen at all the way Holden expected, though he hadn’t allowed the idea much room to evolve and thrive. That isn’t to say that he hadn’t thought about kissing Bill - or something more. He’d imagined it in every scenario possible. Sometimes the imaginary version of himself had the courage to instigate the intimate contact. Sometimes the hard, fierce lines of Bill’s body pressed demandingly into him; sometimes, the softer composite of Bill in his head was gentle with the first kiss, probably in a way that’s distant from reality. In the end, he’s not quite sure where his impulse ended and Bill’s began. It was a drunken dance coming off a case, a victory if one could call the frayed end of five dead bodies a victory, a slip of conscience and discarded ideals. 

Somewhere in the muddled, alcohol-soaked memories, Holden recalls staring at Bill’s lips and leaning in. But Bill was leaning in too. The rest was a hot, heady blur, hands all over one another in an almost juvenile fumble for bare skin. 

Holden wakes the next morning in the unfamiliar bed of the hotel in Denver, Colorado, ugly floral wallpaper staring judgmentally back at him, his clothes in disarray on the floor. Bill is the only familiar thing about this room, and even that feels strange because he’s naked under the sheets beside Holden. 

Holden lays rigidly still for a long minute, reality setting in. His body flushes hot as each memory crawls like burning needles across his skin, mapping out every inch of bare skin Bill had touched the night before. Dread churns just beneath the lingering hum of arousal, the truth of the situation sitting like an iceberg under the gently lapping waves of early morning sunlight spilling past the blinds. 

He peeks a glance over his shoulder at Bill. He’s still asleep, his expression lax in a relaxed dream state, though it’s certain to shift to disbelief and perhaps anger once he wakes up to realize that last night was no fever dream or jaunt of the imagination. 

Moving slowly, Holden creeps out from beneath the sheets, and swipes his underwear from the floor on his way to the bathroom. Once behind the closed door of the bathroom, he clambers into his underwear, and leans against the sink. His heart pounds in the hollow silence while his mind races. He can’t take this back. He can’t erase it. He wouldn’t want to because _Jesus Christ_ he hasn’t felt that good in awhile, hasn’t enjoyed an orgasm so thoroughly in what feels like years, but Bill- 

Holden startles when a soft knock on the door interrupts the runaway trainwreck of his thoughts. 

“J-just a minute!” He calls out. His throat tightens as he casts a panicked glance at the mirror. His reflection is a harsh depiction of regret and poor choices, the remnants of stupid, lovesick impertinence. 

“Holden?” Bill’s voice drifts past the barrier of the bathroom door. 

Holden closes his eyes, drawing in a steadying breathe. Rearranging his face to something that doesn’t quite match _deer-in-the-headlights_, he turns to slide the door open a crack. 

Bill leans against the doorframe on the other side. He’s naked. His hair is messy. Holden has never seen his hair messy before. It’s … pleasing. 

Holden swallows hard. “Hi.” 

“Hey.” Bill says, his gaze taking in Holden’s barely concealed panic with meticulous ease. “You okay?” 

Holden glances away, his face flushing hot again. Bill doesn’t seem angry, and yet …

“Holden.” Bill says, and he sounds like someone trying to soothe a frightened, cornered animal. He pushes the door open wider against the scarce resistance of Holden’s hand on the knob, and slips into the bathroom. 

The broad grip of his hands settle on Holden’s hips, guiding him closer. Their hips are touching. Holden feels faint. 

“Hey, say something.” Bill says, “Usually I can’t get you shut up.” 

Holden carefully places his hands on Bill’s forearms. “I’m just not sure what we’re doing here.” 

“Well, you’re hogging the bathroom for one.” Bill says, uttering a quiet chuckle. 

Holden frowns as he slowly lifts his eyes to Bill’s. “You’re not … mad?” 

“Mad?” 

“About … last night.” Holden whispers, feeling his face growing hot again. Just saying those words -_ last night - _encapsulates everything that happened, every touch, every moan. 

“No.” Bill says, sighing softly. His hand cradles Holden’s cheeks, directing his eyes back up from the floor.

Their faces are bare inches apart, and Holden can see every minute detail, the silver hint of stubble, the pucker of his lower lip, the gray and blue harmony of his eyes looking like the sky just before rain. Suddenly, he can’t breathe. 

“No, I’m getting a little too old to pretend like I don’t know what I want.” Bill says, his thumb caressing Holden’s cheek. “Don’t you think?” 

Holden barely manages a choked hum of a reply before Bill’s grip on his jaw drags him into a slow kiss. A shudder ripples through him from head-to-toe, ending with a bright burst of need low in his belly. Bill’s mouth his warm and wet and heavy, stroking with purpose until Holden’s mouth falls open against it, helplessly submissive to the caress. 

When Bill draws back, he’s breathing in a quiet, staggered gasps. 

“I know what I want.” Bill says, his gaze focusing first on Holden’s slick, panting mouth and then his wide, blinking eyes. “Do you?” 

“Yes.” Holden rasps before he can second-guess the conclusion. 

“Good.” Bill says, giving his cheek a squeeze. He clears his throat. “Now, can you stop hogging the bathroom so I can take a leak?” 

A nervous chuckle erupts from Holden’s throat. “Yes. Sorry.” 

They break apart, but Bill’s fingers trail along the inside of Holden’s forearm as he turns for the door. 

“Holden.” 

“Yeah?” 

Bill nods toward the hotel room and the bed they left behind. “Wait for me in the bed, okay?” 

Holden nods, unable to wrangle a response from the fresh need exploding in his chest. The bathroom door swings shut, and Holden turns to scamper back to the bed. He sinks to the warm sheets, muffling an excited noise in the pillow. When Bill returns from the bathroom, he’s out of his underwear again, panic subdued, nearly forgotten behind the blinding surge of need and the realization that the world hasn’t ended, Bill isn’t angry, and there’s nothing left to fear.


	7. heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: “you can fuck with anyone, but with whom can you sit in water?”

Bill can usually pinpoint the moment when Holden is about to slip into an episode, and try to steer him out of that situation. He does his best to protect Holden from being exposed to the triggers. He does his best to make sure no one sees the panic if all the barriers fail. It’s a full time job, but he doesn’t mind; he only minds when he fails, like he did only an hour ago. 

It’s the dead of winter in North Dakota. A foot of snow on the ground. In the scattered footprints surrounding the solitary, half-decayed barn standing in the middle of the vast field, there’s blood splattered deep red across the blanketed white. 

They got there too late. The girl’s throat was cut. She was barely conscious when they burst into the barn, making on a few scraped sounds of pain before passing away with Holden’s hands wrapped across the jagged slash. 

Standing over the brutal scene, Bill knew he should have stopped Holden from even entering the barn. He knew they should have stayed at the precinct while local officers went to investigate the scene. At the very least, he should have stopped Holden from dropping to his knees, and touching the dying victim. He should have known what would happen. 

Holden’s weight is heavy against his side now as they stagger across the field towards the vehicle they’d driven to the scene. His breath clouds the air in panicked bursts, a strange, painful wheezing noise that borders between hyperventilating and sobbing. He’s muttering something about how they should have gotten there faster, but the words are lost in between hiccuped gasps. 

Supporting Holden with one arm, Bill pulls the passenger side door open, and stuffs him into the car. He pats down Holden’s pockets for the Valium, and twists the bottle open. He presses one of the pills to Holden’s bloody hand. 

“Here, take this.” 

Holden complies. He chews on the pill, his eyes slipping shut against the gradually subsiding waves of panic. 

“All right, let’s get you back to the hotel.” Bill says, giving his knee a pat. “Put your seatbelt on.”

He slams the door shut before Holden can reply. Bill gets behind the wheel, and starts the car. The headlights click on, casting the scene at the barn in a sickly yellow glow. Crime scene tape stretches across the white scene. They can’t do anything else here tonight. 

When they reach the hotel, Holden is lax and compliant. His pale cheeks are tear-stained, but the wheezing has faded to a subdued whimper that emerges from the back of his throat as they stagger across the threshold of their room. 

“Bill, I’m sorry.” Holden whispers, his fist clinging to the back of Bill’s shirt for support. He lifts wet, blue eyes to Bill’s face. He has a smear of blood on his cheek. 

“For what? We did everything we could.” 

“It wasn’t enough.” Holden whispers, his mouth trembling. “_I _wasn’t enough.” 

“This isn’t your fault. Now come on, you need to get cleaned up.” Bill says, nudging him toward the bathroom. 

Bill sits Holden down on the closed lid of the toilet, and turns to run water into the bathtub. As the tub fills, Holden strips out of the blood-stained clothes with trembling hands. The Valium is working because he isn’t hyperventilating any longer, but Bill can tell that the dark thoughts are still turning behind his eyes. 

Bill sits down on the edge of the tub surround, and braces his elbows on his knees. He’s never been good at comforting other people. He can clean up the mess, but he’s not sure how to manage the tears lingering in Holden’s eyes. 

“What is the point of all this?” Holden asks, softly. “I thought we were trying to prevent people from dying, not getting there after the fact.” 

“We are. We’re doing the best we can, but we can’t always win. That isn’t a personal failure, it’s just life.” Bill says, leaning forward to catch Holden’s eyes. “Okay?” 

“Okay.” Holden rubs the heel of his hand against his eye, smearing blood and tears. 

Bill shuts off the faucet as the water creeps toward the top of the tub. He rises to his feet, and motions for Holden to get in. 

Holden takes off his trousers and underwear, and carefully folds them on the toilet lid. He climbs into the tub, and sinks down into the water with a shuddering sigh. 

Bill leaves for a just a minute to retrieve fresh towels from the room. When he comes back, Holden is sunken down in the water, his chin slipping below the surface. 

“Hey, hey, sit up.” Bill says, grasping Holden’s wrist to drag him upright. 

“Fuck, I’m so tired.” Holden mutters. 

Bill chews the inside of his cheek, thinking it probably wasn’t wise to dope Holden up on Valium right before putting him in a tub of warm water. Before he can reconsider, he strips down to his underwear, and climbs into the tub behind Holden. 

Holden makes a quiet sound of surprise just before he snuggles back against Bill’s chest. His fingers curl around Bill’s arm, guiding it across his chest, and clinging to it. Bill resists for mere seconds before allowing his arm to tighten around Holden’s body. 

The water laps quietly, disturbed ripples coming in slower and slower until it’s completely still. The only sound in the bathroom is the intermittent drip of the faucet. 

Holden’s breathing slows, the weight of his body settling back against Bill heavier and heavier. 

Bill doesn’t move, telling himself it’s because he doesn’t want Holden to slip into a Valium-induced haze and drown himself, but beneath the noble exterior of protectiveness, he can feel some small part of him warming against the contact.

He lowers his head, pressing his cheek against Holden’s. He hasn’t felt this close to anyone in so long that the intimacy of it is startling. He’s starkly aware of every point of contact, of the water making his boxers cling to his skin, of the texture of Holden’s hair against his ear, of the cadenced rhythm of Holden’s breathing matching up with his own; but he doesn’t want to run from it, or leave the warm cradle of the water. 

He wants to stay here until the panic subsides and the blood washes away, until Holden isn’t fearful anymore and he’s his confident, audacious self again. And maybe, he wants it for himself too, for all the emptiness of the last few months since Nancy left, for all the times when he and Holden exchange glances and it feels like something heavier. This feels heavy, heavy enough to drown them both, but for right now, Bill can’t bring himself to care. He closes his eyes, and lets the closeness feel right.


	8. blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from citrustlucy: bill compliments holden and he’s lost for words. please and thank you 🙏🥺

With the amount of driving that they do on the job, Bill would have thought that spending their free time on the weekend together in a car would have been unremarkable, if not excessive; but there’s something about driving the winding back roads of Fredericksburg with Holden in the passenger’s seat beside him that feels safe. It’s something familiar, a space that he understands and is comfortable in, even while the rest of their relationship is shifting into deeper, more serious waters. 

They started out this afternoon leaving the house to go to dinner, but once they left the restaurant, Holden hadn’t wanted to go home. He wanted to drive out to see the Rappahannock River. Bill has seen the river plenty of times as it cradles the city that he’s lived in for most of his life, and it’s a good half hour drive out of their way; but, it’s what Holden wants so Bill complies without complaint. 

The drive is quiet except for the mellow strains of Fleetwood Mac bleeding from the radio. Holden’s hand creeps across the gearshift while the sun begins to set in front of them, painting the dusky blue of the sky with pink and purple. Bill takes his hand off the wheel to find Holden’s hand against his thigh. Their fingers touch, slowly at first, nudging up against one another in a tentative question of boundaries. 

Bill cuts a glance across the car, but Holden’s gaze is fixed on the dazzling sunset deepening across the sky in front of them. The color is so low against the asphalt that it looks like they could dive into the blush of pink at any moment. The wash of light spills across Holden’s profile, illuminating the soft swell of his cheeks plumping in a smile, his lips squirming against the giddy expression. 

Their fingers intertwine, and Bill draws in a steadying breath. 

Holden chuckles softly. 

“What?” Bill asks, trying not to sound defensive. 

“You’re holding my hand.” Holden says, peeking across the car at him. 

“I can see that.” 

Holden keeps smiling, biting his lower lip. Bill sighs, but lets him have the moment. Lets himself have it, if he’s being honest. He can’t remember the last time he and Nancy held hands before everything went to shit. It’s one of those little things he didn’t realize he’d missed about being in a happy relationship. 

When they reach the river, Bill finds a parking spot that’s secluded from the rest of the vehicles. Most people are headed for the walking trail along the side of the water, but Holden is content to stay in the car where the panoramic view of the sunset over the water lapses out in front of them. 

Bill disentangles their fingers to slide his arm across the back of the seat, and around Holden’s shoulders. 

“Well, here we are.” He says, “Happy?” 

“Yes.” Holden murmurs, tucking himself under Bill’s shoulder, and snuggling down with a contented sigh. “It’s beautiful.” 

“Mm.” Bill mutters, his gaze more focused on Holden’s blissful expression rather than the view. 

He curls his fingers around Holden’s shoulder, and gradually moves his hand inward until his touch is brushing up against Holden’s neck, just below his ear. 

Holden suppresses a quiet sound as the stroking intensifies, rubbing up along his hairline, and tracing the shell of his ear. He purses his lips, keeping his gaze stubbornly focused on the sunset. 

Bill drops a soft kiss against his forehead. 

He’s seen a hundred sunsets. He’s seen the river. He’s seen the sky from behind the wheel, when the road was before him, and the passenger’s seat was empty. He’s put his arm around someone else, and ached for it to feel this good. But it’s never felt this way. Not even close. 

Slipping his fingers under Holden’s chin, he tilts his head back to press a slow kiss to Holden’s mouth. 

Holden whimpers a quiet sound of surprise, but quickly melts into the caress. He slides his lips open, expelling a sweet, breathy moan into the wet pressure of Bill’s mouth coming down in gradual, yearning strokes. Clutching at the collar of Bill’s shirt, he kisses back for a moment before tearing his mouth away. 

“You’re missing it.” He whispers, nodding at the final stages of the sunset turning the deepest pink. 

“I’m not missing anything.” Bill says, stroking Holden’s chin so that it can’t turn away from him.

Holden pauses, his eyes blinking rapidly. Whatever levity had existed up until this moment saps away into silence, into the bob of his throat as he swallows back the flutter of anxiety making its way to his eyes. 

He begins to blush, and Bill kisses him again like he can’t stop himself, like there’s some strong magnet hidden under the lush swell of Holden’s tongue. When he draws back, shuddering, his eyes slip open to glimpse the blue of Holden’s eyes, the pink pucker of his lips. 

“Fuck.” Bill whispers, clutching Holden’s cheek. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Surprise registers in Holden’s eyes before they quickly dart away. He shifts uncomfortably in Bill’s embrace as the blush on his cheeks blossoms into deeper red. 

“What?” He says, giving a strangled little laugh. 

He swallows hard. Maybe they’re both surprised he said it. He hesitates a moment before realizing he meant it. “I said you’re beautiful.” 

Holden’s brow furrows. His mouth moves wordlessly for a moment before he manages to stammer, “I-I don’t know about that-”

“You expect me to believe nobody has ever told you that before? Look at you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you look like someone who should know what kind of effect they have on people.” 

“I have an effect on people?” Holden echoes, his frown deepening in disbelief. 

“Well, I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but …” 

“I’ve never thought of myself that way.” Holden murmurs, sounding bewildered. “I have an effect on you?” 

“It’s a little late for that realization, don’t you think?” Bill asks, motioning to the scant space between them. 

Holden laughs, softly. He tugs Bill down by the collar for another kiss, melding a whisper into the touch, “Yes it is.” 

They don’t talk again for awhile while the kiss stretches on, a gradual, simmering stroke of lips and tongue that’s restrained only by the fact that the little bit of privacy they have is too fragile for anything else. Bill sinks into the hungry ache, feeling like a teenager again making out in his car, longing for the real thing. He can have anything he wants now, but he feels like he should savor this indeterminable feeling floating warmly in his chest. 

When the light of the sunset bleeds away into darkness, Bill extricates his mouth from Holden’s. His mouth is humming with Holden’s taste, an aperitif before the rest of the night. 

“Ready to go home?” He murmurs. 

Holden nods. “Yes. Take me home.”


	9. undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: bill sees holden swimming and some Feelings arise

At a little past midnight, the lobby of the Omni is almost completely silent except for the muted tinkle of piano music. Most of the guests are already in their rooms for the night, and a sole clerk mans the desk. 

Bill can feel exhaustion tugging at his limbs as he arrives at the hotel. He pauses near the front door to finish off his cigarette that he’d smoked down to a stub during the brief drive from the airport to the hotel. 

Across the lobby, a janitor exits the door leading to the indoor pool, and Bill catches a glimpse of the cerulean blue water occupied by one guest. Bill’s brow knits into a frown. He checks his watch. _Hell, it’s late. Too late for swimming._

He discards his cigarette, and crosses the lobby to the pool area. Nudging his way past the door, he crosses the tiled pool surround to stand at the edge of the water. 

Holden is floating in the middle of the pool on his back, his arms stretched out on either side of him in the form of a cross. He’s in scarce, black swim trunks that cling in sharp contrast to the stretch of pale skin. His eyes are shut in an almost peaceful expression, but Bill can see the hitch of his breath as his chest rises from the water, waves barely cresting the puckered buds of his nipples. 

Bill shifts from one foot to the other, drawing in a steadying breath. Maybe he’s too fucking tired, the air too chlorinated, the silence too dense, but this moment feels wrong, like a tiny rip in the universe - only he can’t pull himself away, just wants to keep looking, watching the water lap against Holden’s prone, toned body in rhythmic waves. He can’t pinpoint it, but something fierce and hissing with heat tightens beneath his breastbone, an unearthed propensity, a longing like the dull ache of a papercut filling with blood. 

His shoe scuffs against the wet tile, and Holden’s eyes spring open. He rolls over, causing water to slosh loudly, shattering the utter silence. He comes upright in the water, wiping a hand hurriedly over his face. 

“Bill, you’re back early.” 

“Flights got messed up.” Bill says, “I got stuck with a ticket tonight instead of tomorrow morning.”

“Maybe it’s for the best.” Holden says, treading water slowly. “We like to get an early start.” 

“Then what you still doing up?” Bill asks, motioning to the pool. 

“The water relaxes me.” 

“You know it’s almost one o’clock in the morning?” Bill says, giving his watch a pointed glance. “You relax much longer and you’re going to fall asleep and drown yourself.” 

“You’re right.” Holden says, heading for the ladder at the edge of the pool. “This investigation needs me.” 

Bill suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, but his annoyance is stifled as Holden grabs onto the rails of the ladder to drag himself out of the pool. Water sluices from his body in rivers, and Bill watches it run down the length of his spine before absorbing into the swim trunks and dribbling down his pale thighs. His skin immediately prickles with goosebumps when he emerges into the cool air, causing his belly to shudder and his nipples to tighten. 

Bill grabs a towel from the lounge chair, and throws it out at him. 

Holden snatches the towel out of the air, and presses it to his face. “How was your weekend?” 

“It was fine.” Bill says. 

_It was shitty. _He thinks, clenching his jaw to suppress the truth. He doesn’t want to admit that he’d rather be here in Atlanta most days rather than dealing with the situation at home. He certainly doesn’t want to think about the fact that he felt close to passing out from exhaustion upon walking through the Omni doors, but that threadbare irritation is now muted beneath the hum of satisfaction he’s getting from watching the little streams of water drizzle down Holden’s spine. 

“How’s Nancy?” Holden asks, patting the towel down his chest. 

“Good.” Bill mutters, glancing away for a moment. Something within him stirs, something so far removed from this conversation that he can barely focus on anything other than the way the wet black fabric is outlining Holden’s backside. “Do you want a nightcap?” 

“It’s pretty late.” Holden says, draping the towel over his shoulders. 

“Okay.” Bill shrugs, “I’m having one either way.” 

He turns to walk out of the pool area, silently cursing himself. He’s lost so much sleep the last few weeks that he must also be losing his mind. But he can’t remember the last time he felt the kind of ache he’s feeling now building deep in his belly, yawning into a chasm, begging to be filled with something, someone, anything to make it retreat. 

Bill is crossing the lobby before he hears the quiet slap of Holden’s bare feet on the tiled floor behind him. 

“Are you okay?” Holden asks as Bill jabs at the button for the elevator. 

“Fine.” Bill says, “You change your mind?” 

Holden regards him with curious, blue eyes. He nods, a slight tilt of his chin that’s more an inquiry than an affirmation. His hair is wet and messy from the water, and Bill silently wishes he didn’t know what this looked like - Holden undone. 

As they ride up in the elevator, Bill focuses on the floor where a tiny pool of water is gathering around Holden’s feet. His bare feet. His bare legs. Bill’s gaze keeps climbing upward, getting stuck on the the obvious outline of his groin. He chews the inside of his cheek, biting down the urges piling up against the back of his mind, crushing through his veins, against his ribs, between his hips, every thought and impulse like a pin sliding free of a hand grenade. 

At the door of his room, Bill pauses to swipe the key card. His heart is thudding. He doesn’t know why because he hasn’t made any decision just yet, but it feels presupposed, every tiny interaction since he walked through the door. 

The door swings shut behind Holden, and the sound jolts against Bill’s senses. He turns around, eyeing Holden’s half-naked appearance. It’s then that he realizes he’s wanted to know what it would feel like to touch him for far too long, only he’s been holding it back with the threadbare stitches of his marriage, a contract that already feels broken beyond repair, a fine mist quickly eaten alive by the fire in Holden’s eyes. 

“Bill …” Holden begins, his voice low and raspy. 

It sounds like a question, a warning, a plea all wrapped into one throaty syllable. He blinks and flinches as Bill steps closer, suddenly closing the space between them in a stride. 

Holden’s bare, damp back hits the door, and Bill hears the breath expel from his lungs. 

He braces a hand against the door, bringing his mouth within inches of Holden’s. The space seems to collapse, a dying star imploding in on itself. He feels that far gone, fractured, irreparable. 

_Fuck it._ He kisses Holden hard, his mouth crashing across the pink, open swell with a ferocity that surprises himself. Holden protests in a quiet whimper for a moment before succumbing, his mouth sliding open beneath the coarse stroke of the kiss. He tastes intoxicating and sweet, sweeter than anything or anyone Bill can remember tasting. 

_So this is what it feels like._ He thinks, grasping at Holden’s cheek to pin him back against the door. It’s like the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. Then, he doesn’t think about anything else except letting his body lead him where it wants to go, where Holden wants to be taken. The night melts into pleasure and late hours of early morning.


	10. jealous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: A secretly jealous Bill crashes Holden's business dinner with a case detective.

_ A & J’s Sports Bar  _ the sign reads in neon red letters. The parking lot is half deserted on a Wednesday night, mid-week when most of the televised games are waiting in the wings for the weekend. 

Bill hadn’t expected Holden to let someone take him to such a place. He’s particular. He likes nice, clean things. 

Tossing his cigarette stub to the ground, Bill clenches his jaw against a deep breath. He’s not particularly sure why he’s here. He’s created the reasonable excuse that he needs a drink just like everyone else on the task force, but there’s a hundred other places in St. Paul that he’d rather be than this decrepit, dungy spot that only the locals trust. 

Agent March is a local. According to Holden, he’s been assigned to the FBI field agency here in Minnesota since graduation from the Academy. A real winner. High marks in all classes, tall and easy on the eyes, a stellar record of catching the bad guys. Bill wonders which comic book this guy got ripped off of, then realizes that irritation sounds a lot like jealousy. 

He nearly turns around, and walks back to his car. 

Instead, he shuffles past the front door of the sports bar, and scans the poorly lit room. The televisions above the bar are playing re-runs of last Friday’s big game and  _ Kojak.  _ The air is dense with cigarette smoke and stifled conversation, hardly ventilated by the occasional opening of the front door. 

He quickly locates Holden and March seated in a booth near the back corner. They both have a greasy meal of burgers and fries in front of them and the case file on the table, but they’re embroiled in deep conversation. Bill thinks about all the times Holden complained during road school about fast food. But that was a long time ago. Years. And Bill doesn’t look like Agent March. He doesn’t have the movie star smile to convince Holden to go just about anywhere with him. 

Disgruntled, Bill strides to the bar, swallowing back the bitter taste of jealousy. He asks for a beer, and the bartender, having no other patrons, quickly provides a mug of Budlight. Bill nurses the drink for a moment before digging in his pocket for his cigarettes. The niggling in his chest is hardly satisfied with the rush of nicotine, and he fiddles with the cigarette half-heartedly while watching Holden from across the bar. 

He’s animated,  _ laughing  _ even. Jesus Christ. They’ve spent two weeks working closely with March, and Bill knows for a fact his jokes aren’t that good. He’s a pretty face, the bi-product of generational clout and nepotism within the FBI. His father was with the Bureau as was his grandfather before him. Nothing special. 

Grabbing his mug off the bar, Bill strides past the empty tables to the booth. 

“Holden, I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Holden’s gaze shoots up from it’s attentive focus on March, eyes going round and mouth slack with surprise. He looks like he’s been caught doing something dirty. 

“Bill, what are you doing here?” He asks. 

“Just getting a drink.” Bill says, “One of the SPPD officers recommended this joint. I didn’t expect it to be such a hole-in-the-wall.” 

“All the locals go here.” March says, procuring a thin smile. 

“Mind if I join you?” Bill asks, already sitting down beside Holden. 

Holden scoots over, and Bill can see his cheeks warming from the corner of his eye. 

“We were just discussing the case.” March says, watching Bill with a tempered gaze that just barely yields annoyance lying beneath the surface. 

Bill leans back in the booth seat, returning the gaze with his own measured distaste. He’s good at reading behavior. It’s one of the few things he prides himself in. When Holden had first said that he and March attended the Academy together, Bill hadn’t thought much of it. It wasn’t until a few nights in when they were all having drinks at another local bar when he’d seen them from across the room together. The way March touched Holden’s arm was a bit too friendly, the way his eyes clung when Holden’s back was turned far too intense to be passed off as something else.

Maybe Bill is being over-protective, but he can’t chance something happening between the two only to see Holden’s feelings get hurt when they have to go back home to Virginia. He’s been fragile since Atlanta. Bill just can’t let it happen, not on his watch. 

“Actually…” March says, clearing his throat, “I think we were just finishing up.” His gaze shifts to Holden, quietly demanding. “You ready, Holden?” 

“You’re right. We should all get some sleep.” Bill says, “It sounds like they’re going to start dragging the river tomorrow so it’ll be an early start.” 

March’s brow furrows, and his jaw clenches. He seems close to saying something sharper, but he lets it go with a sigh. “Yeah. See you guys tomorrow.” 

Bill nods as March slides a few bills out of his wallet, and drops them on the table before leaving. 

“Is there something the matter with you?” Holden asks the moment he’s out of ear-shot. 

“What?”

“You interrupted our dinner.” Holden says, waving his hand at March’s half-eaten burger. 

“He was the one that said you were finishing up.” Bill says, conjuring an innocent tone. He bites back something more truthful that Holden wouldn’t appreciate. He can deal with Holden giving him the cold shoulder for a few days if it means March doesn’t get his way with him. 

“Come on, let’s get back.” Bill says, nodding towards the door. 

Holden follows him out into the parking lot where the air is clean and sharp with the taste of autumn. Bill exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke as he walks towards his car. He quickly realizes that Holden has stopped walking, and pauses in the middle of the parking lot. 

“What?”

“Lee drove me here.” Holden says. 

“So. You can ride back with me. Come on.” 

Holden glares at him in the dim, red light of the neon overhead. Bill stares back at him, wondering if Holden can see the honesty underneath, the ugly, juvenile truth of it all. His stomach churns. 

Holden takes a shuffled step closer. His expression shifts to disbelief, and he utters a quiet laugh. “I think I understand what’s happening here.” 

Bill swallows hard. “What’s that?” 

“Really?” Holden echoes, the corners of his eyes pinching with a wince. “Come on, Bill. This isn’t you.” 

“What isn’t? I don’t know what you mean-”

“Jealousy.” Holden says, “It is  _ not  _ a good color on you.” 

He walks past Bill with a sigh, shaking his head. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I just came here for a fucking drink.” Bill says, defensively, feeling himself getting mad despite the fact that all of it is true. It’s Holden’s snarky little tone, his smart-ass, intuitive smugness. 

“Sure you did.” Holden says. 

He yanks the car door open, and ducks inside before Bill can protest. Bill digs his keys out of his pocket, and squeezes the little metal teeth into his palm for a long moment before walking slowly to the car. 

He gets inside and pulls the door shut behind him. Silence settles. He can almost hear the blood rushing to his face. He should have never come here tonight. Should’ve just let it go because it’s none of his business who Holden fucks. 

“You think he’s trying to fuck me?” Holden asks, finally, breaking the silence with this curiously posed question. 

Bill’s gaze careens across the car to land on Holden’s pensive expression. 

Holden glances back at him, a slight smile tilting his mouth. The tension breaks. 

“If he tried any harder, he might hurt himself.” Bill says, leaning forward to start the car. 

“Hmm.” Holden mutters. He sounds truly perplexed, but Bill can’t help but wonder if he’s just being pretentious again. 

As Bill guides the car back onto the freeway, a single thought plagues his mind:  _ The better question is, am I trying to fuck him?  _ He grips the steering wheel while the city skyline opens up in front of them, and tries vainly not to think about it. 


	11. tethered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: I'm seeing them exhausted and sweating in their police car in Atlanta, waiting hours for a body to show up. There's been this tension filled with confused feelings and fear between them for ages now and they just grab each other's hand real tight, hidden in their car.

Exhaustion creeps in slowly like water through a small puncture in a ship’s hull. What began as an easily ignored pestilence evolves into waves - churning, drowning water surging over Holden’s head through night upon night of bridge surveillance. He feels threadbare and stretched thin, the scattered pieces of himself struggling to find one another in daylight after midnight hours of silently, achingly falling away inside the miserable heat of a parked car. 

The temperature must be breaking some kind of record he thinks. Most nights he sweats straight through his shirt before staggering back to the hotel, taking a quick, relieving shower and falling into bed only to repeat it all again the next day. At first it hadn’t bothered him so much, but with the empty nights stretching further and further behind them, the task is beginning to feel like pointless torment. 

Holden shoots a glance across the car at Bill. He’s smoking his cigarette quietly, his head tilted back against the headrest with his eyes half-shut. He complains about the late nights, but never about the heat or the fruitless long hours of watching vacant bridges with no leads to speak of. In reality, he has more to complain about than the rest of them - this investigation piled on top of everything back home. 

Holden draws in a deep breath, and shifts down against the seat. Guilt itches beneath his skin. He clears his throat. 

Bill’s half-lidded gaze seeks across the car at the quiet sound. “Hmm?”

“Nothing, I just …” Holden pauses before shoving down the hesitation in his chest. “I think I owe you an apology.” 

Bill takes his cigarette from his mouth, and regards Holden through a haze of smoke. “Apology?” 

“Yes.” Holden says, instinctively glancing away from the criticism in Bill’s eyes. “For not being more … sensitive or-”

“You had no way of knowing.” Bill says, shaking his head. “I didn’t want anyone to know unless absolutely necessary. There’s a lot at stake, and I just want what’s best for Brian.” 

“I understand that.” 

Bill takes another drag of his cigarette, and exhales heavily. “If anything, I owe you an apology.” 

“It’s okay really-”

“No, it isn’t.”

Holden’s gaze creeps up from his lap. He hadn’t expected such honesty, let alone humility. 

The color of Bill’s eyes is an indistinguishable gray-blue in the dim light radiating from the streetlamp a few yards down. He looks tired as hell, as tired as Holden feels. Holden’s throat thickens. 

“I shouldn’t have said what I said, I was just …” Bill says, trailing off grimly. He shakes his head, and focuses his gaze toward the window. “Things aren’t going well with me … me and Nancy.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“They haven’t been for awhile.” 

Holden purses his lips against a hasty reply. He has to step carefully now that Bill has so easily opened up his chest and expelled all the broken pieces in front of him. Some shards are sharper than others despite Bill’s quiet tone. 

“I can’t imagine how hard that is on top of what happened with Brian.” Holden says, finally. 

Bill tosses his spent cigarette out the window, and leans against the seat with a grunt. “She wanted me to take time off right before we got sent down here. I didn’t have a fucking choice, but to her, it feels like I did … like I do every single time.” 

Holden swallows hard. He’s just another burden on Bill’s shoulders, another crushing responsibility. 

“Is what you said true?” He whispers, “Ted sent you down here specifically to put me on a leash?” 

Bill gives a clipped sigh. “No, what I said was a little harsh-”

“Just tell me.” Holden says, “I can handle it.” 

The heat in the car seems to have intensified. He can feel a line of sweat dribbling down his temple, the weight of it itching beneath his clothes, and threatening to suffocate him. He wants to bolt out of the car to escape the truth of what Bill might say next, but something stronger keeps him pinned in his seat. 

“It doesn’t matter what Ted did or didn’t say.” Bill says, at last, his voice softening. “If I have to be here - which I do - I want to have you here with me.” 

Holden’s heart pauses it’s wild, sickened beat before stumbling into another cadence closer to joy and relief. His gaze swings across the car to take in Bill’s stern profile pointed stubbornly at the bridge ahead. The wash of the streetlamp is harsh on the sharp lines of his face, but beneath the dark, blunt edges of shadow, Holden can glimpse the soft quiver of his mouth trembling around a fragile sigh. 

Holden nods, swallowing against the lump rising in his throat. But the misery has slacked off suddenly, and the knot squeezing the back of his tongue doesn’t feel like dread anymore. 

“I need you here too.” He whispers. “I don’t think I could do this if you weren’t.” 

He doesn’t stop to second-guess himself as he reaches across the gearshift. Bill’s hand is laying limply against his thigh, but it quickly stiffens when Holden’s hand touches his knuckles. 

Bill glances down sharply, gazing at the place where their hands are connected for a long moment. He seems to wrestle with the contact, trying to ignore it or thinking of pulling his hand away. But his fingers are already lost to the touch as Holden winds his own fingers between them, curling his palm down around the knuckles. 

Holden thinks of saying more. He wants to say that he needs Bill wherever they go, not just Atlanta, that this relationship is the most important in his life, that he doesn’t have anyone else, that he doesn’t want anyone else. But maybe they’ve already said enough, and this night is already too fragile for something so heavy. Maybe the tethered grasp of their hands is strong enough to say all of that and more. 


	12. earth angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from rominatrix: Modern setting. They have been together for a long time now but they haven't come out to the bureau. Holden wants to, but Bill is more reticent. It's not the right time, what if something happens to one of us, what if you don't like me anymore? Holden can't convince him but they love each other so that's more important. There's some company dance or gathering (or something) and Bill decides it's time and has the dj play one of Holden's fav songs and takes Holden's hand and they dance and kiss x

“Do you think the tie is too much?” Holden asks, fiddling with the knot as he gazes critically at his reflection in the mirror. 

“It’s business casual, Holden.” Bill says, uttering a sigh as he leans back against the headboard of their bed. “Nobody else is going to be wearing a tie.”

Holden groans in frustration and yanks the tie from around his neck. 

Taking a drag of his cigarette, Bill suppresses the urge to not roll his eyes. He’s been dressed for fifteen minutes while Holden is still agonizing over what to wear to their department chief’s retirement party. They have this same conversation anytime they go anywhere together whether it’s dinner or the movies. Holden is wildly indecisive about unimportant things like which t-shirt to wear while being unimpeachably decided about a number of other things. 

“Just wear a polo.” Bill says, motioning to his own navy blue shirt. “It’ll be fine.”

Holden takes off his button up as he goes back to his closet to consult his choices. He drags his fingers across the row of shirts while he contemplates aloud, “I wonder if Wendy is bringing Kay.”

Bill draws in a deep breath as he dusts some non existent lint from his pant leg. There’s a pointed note in Holden’s voice, a question underlying the innocent pondering. A question they’ve been over only about ten times in the past week. Once Holden gets an idea in his head, it’s difficult for him to let go. 

“Probably.” Bill says, “Everyone got a plus one.”

“Including us.” Holden mutters, toying with the sleeve of a black knit sweater. 

Bill smashes his spent cigarette in the tray on the nightstand. “Are we really going to have this argument right now? While we’re trying to get ready to go? You’re gonna make us late.”

“Yeah, then everyone would notice that we’re arriving together.” Holden says, turning around to cast him an unperturbed glare. 

Bill longs for the days when a gruff tone of voice was enough to smother Holden’s simpering. No longer. They’re in a relationship now, and Holden is unbothered by his frustration, well aware that his bark is worse than his bite. 

Not too long ago, he’d been a sergeant in the Army. Where had all his authority gone to? 

Bill swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands with a sigh. “Come on, let’s go. I’m not fighting with you about this right now.”

Holden’s petulant gaze follows him out of the room before cutting back to his closet. 

Ten minutes later he’s dressed in a gray pull-over sweater and black slacks. Bill motions him out the door, checking his watch with a flare of annoyance. 

Holden scrolls through his phone while Bill drives them to Quantico. Pushing aside his frustrations, Bill reaches a tentative hand across the space between them to touch his knee. Holden laces his fingers through Bill’s, but he doesn’t look up from his cell. 

Bill squeezes his fingers around the wheel. He feels like he should apologize for being short, but a flinching part of him hides fiercely behind prickly armor. He’s never outed himself to anyone. While Holden has been out and proud to most of their co-workers since the day they met, Bill has always kept his sexuality a secret. Even after a failed marriage to a woman, it’s difficult for him to look at Holden’s gay friends, a community of proud, loving individuals, without wondering if he’s some kind of fraud. He’d spent the first half of his life trying to live up to antiquated ideals set forth by his family, by the military, by the Bureau, and the idea of identifying to everyone around them that he’s just as gay as Holden and Wendy scares the hell out of him. 

But he can’t tell Holden that. He can’t say aloud that he’s scared more than anything else. The relationship is too new and fragile. What if they made their relationship public, and then realized how incompatible they really are? Bill’s cover would be blown forever, and for what? 

Bill glances across the car at Holden whose face is illuminated by the blue LED of his cellphone screen.  _ For him.  _

Holden looks up from his phone. “Wendy just posted on Instagram she’s bringing Kay.”

Bill clenches his jaw. Social media. Yet another affirmation by fire. 

“They’re adorable.” Holden observes, holding out the phone so that Bill can see the photo of Kay kissing Wendy’s cheek while Wendy gazes blissfully into the lens. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, averting his gaze back to the road. 

“You know,” Holden says, after a moment, “Wendy already knows. And probably so does half of the department.”

“What’s your point?” 

“My point is that nobody is judging us.” Holden says, “It’s 2019, Bill. People are getting more progressive, believe it or not. All it would really be is signing the consent form and-”

“I don’t want my relationship to be a matter of FBI record.” Bill says, “Is that too much to ask, Holden? That I don’t want to sign some paper saying we’re sleeping together?” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t see what the big deal is.” Holden says, “It’s just to avoid sexual harassment law suits. It’s just a precaution. It’s not some big declaration of your love for me.”

Silence settles on the car, and Bill disentangles his hand from Holden’s. His fingers are itching for a cigarette, but Holden complains every time he lights up in the car. 

“Okay.” Holden mutters, sounding wounded. “Maybe love was too strong of a word.”

“It isn’t, it's just-” Bill says, the protest cutting off as his throat knots around the magnitude of honesty. 

Holden’s eyes are glazed blue in the flash of streetlamps speeding past them. His mouth purses softly as realization settles across his expression. For once, he shuts his mouth and turns his gaze back to his cellphone. 

When they reach Quantico, they walk across the crowded parking lot together. Bill checks his watch, noting that they’re five minutes late. 

The party is located in the dining hall where the fully stocked bar is already flowing with a variety of wines and cocktails. Bill makes a beeline for the whiskey while Holden immediately gets pulled into a lively conversation with some of their co-workers about the merits of psychology in horror films. 

Bill sips his whiskey in the corner while Holden mingles. He’s better at these shindigs than Bill, and it’s probably for the best that they mostly keep their distance tonight considering the conversation they just had. 

Bill swallows back his first drink and goes back to the bar for another. His stomach knots as he replays the discussion in his mind, every word marinating in the pit of fear opening up in the back of his mind. Watching Holden’s animated gesticulating from across the dining hall, he suddenly wonders whether or not he’s being ridiculous. Two other men in the discussion with Holden have their arms wrapped around each other. He wants to know what that feels like, holding onto Holden like he’s a prize deserving of being shown off rather than cowering in the corner for fear that someone might judge him. 

“Hey, Bill.” Wendy says, jolting him from his thoughts as she approaches. 

Kay is on her heels, fingers wrapped loosely around Wendy’s. 

“Hey.” Bill says, “How are you?”

“Good.” Wendy says, leaning in to give him a hug. “You look awfully lonesome standing over here by yourself.”

“They’re discussing horror films.” Bill says, motioning at Holden’s group of friends. “I’m not exactly up to par on the subject.”

Wendy chuckles, “Not a horror film junkie? I’m a little surprised.”

“I was in the Army.” Bill says, “I know what real horror looks like. The fake stuff is just … fake.”

Wendy nods, “I see. Still, I’m sure you would have something to contribute.”

Bill narrows his eyes. “You know I’m not a social butterfly, Wendy. Did Holden say something to you?”

Wendy cocks her head to one side curiously. “About what?”

“Never mind.” Bill says, cutting his glance away. 

Half an hour later, the catering service brings out dinner and bottles of champagne. The director makes a speech before wishing everyone a good night. Upbeat pop music thuds over the roar of conversation while the dinner plates are cleared away, and all the party attendees slouch over their cups. 

Bill leans back in his chair while Holden braces his elbows on the table, leaning into the conversation with other agents at their table. Bill watches the back of his head, the curve of his spine, his mouth smiling wildly as the alcohol is quick to get him tipsy. 

Something warm and humming wraps itself around his ribs, smothering whatever withering fear he’d carried into this evening. Maybe it’s the whiskey or the champagne. Maybe it’s the candlelight, and Holden’s hair gleaming like bronze in the low, yellow light. Maybe it’s his joy and radiance, everything about him that drawn Bill in like a moth to the flame, forcing him to lay down his insecurities at the threshold of their relationship and plunge ahead with nothing but each other to hold onto. Now all that’s standing in the way is Bill’s stubbornness over a piece of goddamn paper. A signature, a declaration - because truly, that’s what it is. 

Across the table, one of the other agents, Jared, is vividly recounting him and his boyfriend’s weekend escapade at the gay strip club. Holden doubles over the table in laughter as the story gets more and more wild, perhaps embellished a bit. 

“You should come with us next time.” Jared says, “I know you would be a lot of fun.”

“Ah, I don’t know.” Holden says, running anxious fingers through his hair. “I don’t think my boyfriend would like it.”

Bill shifts uncomfortably in his chair, wondering if the rest of the group can see his face getting unbearably hot.

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” Jared says. 

“Yeah, um, it’s kind of new.” Holden says, his tone dwindling. “It’s not like … official or whatever.”

Jared raises his eyebrows. “But he’s already telling you what to do.”

“What, no.” Holden says, sharply. “I’m just being respectful of boundaries.”

“Okay, sure.” Jared says, shrugging. “But you should really come with one of these days. It’s a helluva lot more fun than this party.”

Bill clears his throat. “I’m going to step outside for a cigarette.”

Holden’s gaze cuts sharply over his shoulder, eyes speaking a number of racing questions even as his mouth purses anxiously. 

Bill shoves his chair back, and escapes the stifled atmosphere of the party. Outside, the bassline of the music thuds a distant vibration while the blue sky lapses into melted purples and pinks of sunset. 

Sliding a cigarette to the corner of his mouth, Bill lights up and draws in a deep breath. Nicotine floods his strung-out veins while Holden’s voice echoes in his mind.  _ It’s not official.  _ Well, that makes it sound like some kind of quick and dirty hookup. Bill flinches at the thought. 

He takes his time smoking his cigarette, thinking and vacillating, shivering and pushing aside his fears. 

He has a lot to lose. His pride, for one. His standing as a military veteran. His position as a father trying to co-parent with his ex-wife. His own self-identity. It’s all at stake while Holden, already out to the world, has nothing to lose. 

_ The only thing they both stand to lose is each other. _ The thought strikes him as if it had dropped out of the clear blue sky. 

Dropping his cigarette to the ground, Bill turns and marches back into the dining hall. 

The music has quieted down as couples migrate to the open floor at the middle to slow dance in muted, half-drunk intimacy. Piano notes tinkle across the speakers just before the Penguin’s begin to croon “Earth Angel.” 

Bill scans the room for Holden, quickly picking him out of the crowd. He shoulders his way past clusters of agents and department heads, muttering apologies in his haste. As he approaches, Holden glances up from his conversation, and their eyes meet from across the room. 

Holden’s wide blue eyes regard him with a faint frustration that quickly melts into hopeful longing when he sees the look on Bill’s face. His mouth slips partially open, tongue running anxiously across his lower lip. 

Bill jolts back into motion. Closing the few yards of distance between them, he shoulders his way into the circle of Holden’s friends. 

“Excuse me.” He mutters, ignoring Jared’s glare of disbelief as he grabs Holden’s hand.

“Bill-” Holden begins, his tone colored with surprise. 

“Can I have this dance?” Bill asks, nodding at the floor where half a dozen other couples are wrapped in warm embraces. 

Holden blinks in shock for a moment before a smile creeps at the corner of his mouth, quickly evolving into a excited grin. 

“Yes.” He says, fingers wrapping around Bill’s. “Yes, you can.”

Grasping tightly on Holden’s hand, Bill leads them away from the group, all of whom are standing still with their mouths open in growing disbelief. As they reach the dance floor, Bill hears one of them break the silence with a shout of encouragement. 

“Are you sure about this?” Holden asks as Bill pulls him around against his chest. 

“No.” Bill says, reaching down to grab Holden’s hand, and bring it up into position. 

“I don’t know how to dance. Do you?”

“It’s slow dancing.” Bill says, tightening his palm against Holden’s lower back. “Here, just lean against me and sway. That’s all there is to it.”

“That’s all there is to it?” Holden echoes, his mouth tipping with mild amusement. 

“Hey, you can gloat later.” Bill says, “Just let me have this.”

“Okay.” Holden says, leaning in closer. 

He nudges his nose hesitantly against Bill’s, asking for yet another boundary to be crossed. 

Ignoring the stares of people around them, Bill leans in to place a chaste kiss against Holden’s questing mouth. 

Holden closes his eyes, humming a sigh of relief. 

Bill chuckles a small, choked laugh. He buries his face in Holden’s neck, hiding the sting of tears in his eyes. Holden’s body leans into him, so close that he can feel the beats of their hearts connecting. The music swells over the speakers:  _ Earth angel, earth angel. I’m just a fool in love.  _ In this moment, Bill doesn’t care whether he looks like a fool or not - to himself, to their co-workers, hell even their bosses. Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow still afraid of what signing some silly relationship disclosure form means, but for tonight, this dance is declaration enough. 


	13. desert nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: Roadtrip prompt! They’re going somewhere together (not for work). it’s just really domestic and they bought snacks and everything ❤️

Bill hadn’t given any consideration to his mounting vacation days for some time until Wendy had announced she was taking a trip to the Florida Keys, and Holden had remarked that he hadn’t taken any days off in awhile either. He’d quickly turned to Bill to point out that they shouldn’t let Wendy have all the fun. 

Bill shrugged. He hadn’t gone on a real vacation for a few years because he’d been too focused on work. He wasn’t complaining, though, because their work is important. 

He’d forgotten about the conversation until the next morning, when the idea was fully gestated in Holden’s mind. 

“We should go see the Grand Canyon.” Holden said, sitting up in bed with his disheveled hair and eyes wide and alert despite it being seven o’clock in the morning. 

“Okay.” Bill said, rubbing a hand over his sleep-laden eyes. 

“I always wanted to go as a kid, but my family never had the money for out-of-state vacations.” Holden said, “How many vacation days do you think you have?”

“I’m not sure. A lot.” 

“I think we should drive.”

“What? Why? Don’t we drive around enough together as it is?” Bill asked.

Holden turned around to cast him a mischievous smile. “It’ll be an adventure. Please?”

Bill sighed, “It’s a what? - two or three day drive? Maybe more if there’s construction and traffic accidents - which there’s bound to be. Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” Holden said, flopping down against Bill’s chest to pander with wide, pleading eyes. “It’ll be fun. Will you at least consider it?” 

Bill considered it for all of one day, though “considering it” was a loose term. He could see that Holden already had his heart set on the trip, and wouldn’t be letting the idea go anytime soon. Besides, as it turned out, he had more than enough vacation days compiled to allow for driving time and a full week in Arizona. 

They’d struck out two days ago on an early Saturday morning, bags packed, cassette tapes, snacks, and bottles of water stashed in the front seat for the drive ahead. Holden rolled down the window and sang along with the radio as they crossed the state line between Virginia and North Carolina, and all of Bill’s misgivings sailed out the window into the summer air along with the upbeat lyrics of “Tiny Dancer.” 

Holden’s high spirits remained through the brief trip across the tip of North Carolina and into Tennessee. By this point, Bill had grudgingly given into his urging to sing - or rather somewhat hum - along with the music. Bill smoked another cigarette while Holden shelled peanuts out the window, popping them in his mouth in between muttered song lyrics. 

As they sped across the threshold into Arkansas, Holden leaned over to tuck his head against Bill’s shoulder. His fingers crept over to trace Bill’s knuckles and the back of his hand before nudging them in between Bill’s fingers. They were quiet for a long time as the landscape changed around them, rolling green hills rising up into rocky mountains peppered with miles of trees that seemed to go on forever. 

Eventually, Holden sat up and started talking again, reminiscing about some of the different places his family had lived throughout the Midwest. Somewhere in between a story about Milwaukee and St. Paul, he’d made them both promise not to bring up anything work related. Bill agreed without complaint.

The sunset slipped across the sky in hues of gold and pink as they crept towards Oklahoma, the land dipping down into flattened stretches of grassy fields that allowed the dome of the sky to swell above them. Holden sank down in the seat, breathing a happy sigh. 

“Thank you for this.”

“For what?” 

“This trip.” Holden said, casting Bill a faint smile. “It means a lot to me.”

“Hey,” Bill said, catching Holden’s hand and bringing his knuckles to his mouth, “If seeing the Grand Canyon is what you want, I’m going to give it to you.”

“I do want to see it.” Holden said, a smile tugging at his mouth while his eyes went soft and hazy as a lake on a foggy morning. “But this is more important to me … You.” 

Bill cleared his throat as emotion hit him suddenly in the chest, a yearning and a satisfaction that seemed to compete for residency in that space all at once. 

“It’s nice, right?” Holden asked, sparing Bill having to respond immediately. “Driving, just the two of us.”

“Yeah.” Bill said, “It’s really nice.”

It was past ten o’clock by the time they made it to the hotel that Holden had booked in advance. Bill got out and stretched his legs, relishing not being cramped in a car for less than half an hour before falling into bed exhausted. 

He woke the next morning to Holden curled up against him, golden sunlight through the window making the dark brown of his hair gleam luscious chestnut. Bill carefully traced his bare shoulder as he leaned in to plant a kiss on Holden’s neck, inhaling his familiar scent, drowning himself in the quiet solitude of his moment. 

Quantico seemed to fall far behind them, a distant, gray outline that he could have seen in a book somewhere. This reality, his arms wrapped around Holden, felt like it was the only one that shoulder matter. It took all his willpower to get out of bed to face another day of driving, but Holden’s eagerness to reach their destination urged him along. 

They drove for two more days, passing through Oklahoma, the northern edge of Texas, and New Mexico before the sign for the Arizona state line heralds a closing end to their journey. 

Night descends on the desert like a shroud, plunging the colors of the cloudless sky through shades of blue, purple, and black before the pinprick of stars and the half moon hanging overhead are the only source of illumination outside of the intermittent streetlamps dotting the interstate. The radio plays at low volume, a hushed lullaby that had Holden’s head slumping down against the leather seat cover over an hour ago. 

Bill carefully rolls down his window to light a cigarette. The scrape of his lighter cuts through the quiet bluster of the wind, unanswered by the echoing void just outside of the car. As smoke pours from his lips, he casts a glance over at Holden’s lax expression of blissful sleep. A smile tugs at his mouth.

Not two hours ago, Holden had been pressing whether Bill wanted him to take a turn driving or not as Bill had spent most of the trip behind the wheel. Bill had said no, he prefers to drive; more than that, he prefers to watch Holden sleep, rocked to dreamland by the steady motion of the car over never-ending asphalt. 

Bill turns his gaze back to the road ahead illuminated by the yellow swath of headlights making out the black strip of road ahead. 

Everything is quiet now with Holden slumbering beside him and the interstate all but vacant of traffic. Against the black backdrop of the sky he can begin to see the narrow, crooked outlines of the Grand Canyon’s myriad rocky formations beginning to emerge beneath the milky moonlight. The idea of driving them all the way into the town where neon lights and streetlamps could dispel the sense of distance that this place gives him seems like an offense he can’t abide. 

Easing his foot on the break, Bill brings the car to a crawl, and guides them off the shoulder of the road into the sand. He puts the car in park, and turns his gaze to Holden’s slumbering expression cloaked in shadow. 

He takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly in the silence. The car engine ticks as it cools, but otherwise he can’t hear anything - not even the wind. 

Taking off his seatbelt, Bill leans over to press a kiss against Holden’s cheek. 

Holden stirs, uttering a moan. “Are we there?”

“Not quite.” Bill murmurs, stroking his thumb across Holden's temple where his hair begins to curl. 

Holden’s eyelids flutter open in the darkness, searching the shadowed corners of the car and the street ahead for landmarks. “Where are we?”

“Just outside of Flagstaff.” Bill says. 

“Why are we pulled over?” Holden asks, pushing himself upright in his seat to survey their location on the side of the road. 

“Come on.” Bill says, nodding toward the desert. 

Holden frowns as Bill shoves the door open with his shoulder, and gets out of the car. Sand shifts beneath his feet as he stretches his back, easing out the knotted kinks from hours behind the wheel. 

Holden clambers out of the car, and peers over the hood at him. “What are we doing?”

Bill shuffles around to lean against the hood of the car, and waves a hand for Holden to join him. “Just come here for a minute.”

Holden hesitates for a moment before pushing the car door shut. He ambles around the hood of the car, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles. Sitting on the hood beside Bill, he drops his head to Bill’s shoulder and suppresses a yawn. 

Curling his arm around Holden’s shoulder, Bill draws him closer, and breathes out a quiet sigh. 

“This was a good idea, you know.” He says, quietly. “Getting away for a little bit.”

“Now you agree with me?” Holden asked, teasing gently. “You spent the whole first day complaining about your back hurting.”

“Yeah, you got me there.” Bill says, uttering a low chuckle. 

Holden laughs quietly, tucking his cheek tighter against Bill’s shoulder. 

A slow breeze creeps in from the desert, void of the daytime humidity that is sure to come with the rising of the sun. Holden shudders softly, and Bill draws him closer, rubbing a hand over the goosebumps prickling his arm. 

“Cold?”

“No.” Holden murmurs, defiantly. 

“We can go if you want.”

“No, this is nice.” Holden says, tilting his head back to look up at the sky. “I’ve never seen stars like this, have you?”

“No.” 

Holden lifts a hand towards the sky, his fingertips drizzled in pale, pewter light as if he could dip his nails into the smattering of stars. 

“Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Orion’s Belt …” He murmurs, naming off constellations as his fingers wander across the blanket of the sky. 

Bill slips his fingers under Holden’s jaw and turns his mouth into a kiss, interrupting the whispered string of names. A quiet whimper rolls off Holden’s tongue into the gentle stroke of Bill’s mouth, and his lips fall open to the gentle touch. Bill strokes Holden’s cheek, savoring the softness of his skin and the sweet taste of his mouth, the weightlessness in his chest while this moment unfolds privately in the darkness. 

When he pulls back, Holden swallows hard, his nostrils flaring gently with a deep, shaky inhale. He leans his forehead against Bill’s, closing his eyes against the warm, wandering caress of Bill’s thumb working its way down his jawline and throat. 

“What if we just kept driving?” Bill whispers. 

“What?” Holden asks, offering a choked little laugh. 

“We see the Grand Canyon like you wanted, and then we keep driving.” Bill says, nudging his forehead against Holden’s.

“Really?” Holden asks, despite the smile fighting underneath the bite of his teeth. “And never go back?” 

“Yeah, why not?”

“I don’t think your back would make it to the West Coast.” Holden says, muting a laugh when Bill begins to scowl. 

“Fine, forget it.” Bill says, leaning back. 

Holden gazes at him sheepishly from beneath his eyelashes. “It’s a nice thought, though.”

“Yeah,” Bill says, scanning the dark shadows cloaking the landscape around them. “It is.”

They sit on the hood of the car for a long time, Bill smoking a cigarette, Holden resting his head on Bill’s shoulder. He tries to catalogue each second in his mind - the cool breeze, the endless desert making them small, the weight of Holden’s head on his shoulder, the warm gust of his breath on his neck. 

Things have a way of slipping out of your hands when you aren’t watching, he thinks. Everything changes so quickly. Moments you think will last forever disappear in the blink of an eye. But not this one, not this time. 

Half an hour later, they’re back in the car, driving into Flagstaff where the hotel awaits and the next day promises adventure just as Holden had predicted. Bill casts a glance up at the sky as they leave the desert behind. The moon hasn’t moved despite the distance traveled, and some things, like the stars, are forever. 


	14. right where it belongs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: Protective!Bill losing his cool and coming to Holden’s aid, whether emotionally or during a physical altercation.

Under the bleached, panel lights, the line of sweat making its way down Holden’s temple gleams against his flushed skin. After an hour inside this cramped, poorly ventilated room in a forgotten corner of the Louisiana State Penitentiary, he’s sweated through both his undershirt and button-up, but Bill can’t tell whether it’s the unforgiving heat or nerves. 

Leaning back in his chair, Bill scrounges in his trouser pocket for his cigarettes. As he lights up, his gaze wanders back and forth between Holden and their interview subject, John Jacob McMillan. The man has been stalling for an hour, giving up only minor details, and a few muttered comments about the childhood of abusive tutoring he and his sister had endured at their father’s hand. 

Holden shifts forward in his chair, one hand swiping discreetly at the sweat on his forehead. His breathing is too staggered to be normal. 

“So your father … he taught you how to rape women.” Holden says, his voice soft around the harsh details. 

McMillan’s shoulders lift in a non committal response. 

“Is that why you did what you did?” Holden asks, “Because he taught you that women are trash?”

“He taught me right.” McMillan says, his deep, Southern accent scratchy and gruff. “My mother, she was nothing but a whore. Always running around behind his back. Up and left us when we were no more than nine years old. I learned young the ways of the world. No female after her ever proved me wrong.”

“Does that include your sister?” Holden asks, cutting Bill a pointed glance. 

Bill leans forward to open the folder containing all the details of McMillan’s crimes.

“She was your first victim, right?” Holden asks, “Your father taught you how to put a woman in her place using her.”

McMillan’s relaxed posture stiffens. His hollow eyes go dark, and his lips tremble as he leans forward to plant his elbows on the table. He’s a big man; the gesture makes the whole table shake, metal legs screeching against the cement floor in Bill and Holden’s direction. 

“I love my sister.”

“Rose.” Holden says, not breaking eye contact as he holds out his hand to Bill. 

Bill takes the photograph from inside the folder and puts it in his hand. 

“Pretty name. Pretty girl.” Holden says, extending the picture to McMillan. 

McMillan stares at the youthful picture of his sister, at the time maybe ten years old. Dark eyes betray a depth of sorrow that doesn’t translate to her smiling mouth. 

“I can see why.” Holden says, “So, you’re saying every woman you’ve ever met was her a whore, but not her?” 

“You don’t talk about my sister like that.” McMillan barks, jabbing a finger at Holden from across the table. “Rose is not a whore.”

“Is that why you killed all those women?” Holden presses, “You loved her, but look what you did to her. You hurt her, over and over. She didn’t love you back, did she?” 

“You shut your mouth-”

“She ran away from you.” Holden says, holding out his hand again. 

Bill clenches his jaw as he watches McMillan closely. The man is shaking, jowls trembling with suppressed rage, eyes afire. 

“She ran away from you and fucked some other guy.” Holden says, snapping his fingers at Bill. 

Bill pulls out the second photograph and hands it over. 

“Look.” Holden says, shoving the picture in McMillan’s face. “Not only did she fuck some other guy - she fucked more than one, and now she has two bastard kids because of it.”

Bill leans in to say something, to perhaps slow the direct pace of the interview because he can see McMillan beginning to come apart at the seams. He can see the rage building in the clench of McMillan’s jaw, the red flush creeping up his cheeks, his meaty hands curling into fists against the metal table. He can see Holden leaning too close, his hand extended with the picture, pale wrist exposed above his rolled-up shirtsleeve. 

But he’s already too late. 

McMillan lunges out of the chair, batting the picture from Holden’s fingers with one giant pair of knuckles while the other darts across the table seize Holden’s tie. In the space of a second, Holden his yanked out of his chair and halfway across the table by McMillan’s fist wrapping itself around his tie. 

Metal screeches as the table lurches between them and Bill knocks his chair back in his rush to break them apart. 

“You don’t talk about her like that!” McMillan shouts, his fist pulling viciously at Holden’s tie. 

Holden chokes, both hands batting at McMillan’s barrel chest. 

Bill throws himself between them, his shoulder leveraging back against Holden’s chest as he wraps both hands around McMillan’s wrist. 

“Let go!” Bill growls, shooting McMillan a glare. 

McMillan only pulls harder, his face twisted with senseless rage. 

Bill pushes back against his wrist, feeling Holden’s fingers knotting in the back of his shirt, clinging on. 

“Last chance, McMillan. Let him go!”

McMillan’s fist locks under Bill’s grip. Bill hears Holden wheezing, and a territorial part of his brain takes over. He can hear the clatter of keys opening up the door of the room as the guards rush in to assist them, but his fist is already in motion. 

Pain explodes through his knuckles as his fist collides with McMillan’s jaw, but the surge of adrenaline in his veins all but drowns out the sensation. 

McMillan’s head swings to one side, the anger in his eyes dimming as he’s undoubtedly seeing stars rather than fire. His fist loosens, and Bill shoves him back. He topples backwards, hitting his chair before stumbling to the ground. 

Bill and Holden stagger back from the table as two guards enter the room, batons drawn. 

“Get on your stomach, McMillan. Hands behind your back!” One of them shouts, pulling his handcuffs from his belt. 

“Are you guys okay?” The other guard asks, turning to Bill and Holden. 

Ignoring the guard’s question, Bill turns to grasp Holden’s elbow. Holden stumbles against him, breathing heavily and grasping at his throat. 

“Can you breathe?” Bill asks. 

Holden’s gaze darts up for a moment, and Bill glimpses tears swimming against his bloodshot eyes. His mouth hangs open, drawing in scraped, gasping breaths. Both hands cling to the front of Bill’s shirts, knuckles blanched white in horror. 

“Holden, are you okay?”

Holden gives a slight shake of his head. 

“Do you guys need a doctor?” The guard asks as he helps his partner drag McMillan up from the floor by his handcuffs. 

“No.” Holden whispers, his voice trembling yet firm. 

“No, we’re fine.” Bill says, “Can you just tell me where the nearest bathroom is?” 

“Down the hall to your left. End of the hall.”

“Thanks.”

Wrapping an arm around Holden’s waist, Bill leads them slowly out of the room. The hall is utterly quiet save for the distant echo of slamming bars and prisoners shouting. Holden’s panicked breaths scrape loudly against the hollow cement walls, amplifying the muted fear until it’s all Bill can focus on. Worry climbs his chest like suffocating vines, and he thinks of chasing the guards down and telling them to get a doctor. Holden is sick, he doesn’t know what’s best for him; but Holden might not forgive him if he wound up in another hospital bed, tied down like Vacaville. 

When they reach the bathroom, Bill shoulders his way inside, and leads Holden to the row of sinks where the overhead lights cast their reflection in glaring yellow. Holden’s skin is sallow white, misted over with perspiration and few stray tears. 

Bill reaches into his pocket to locate the bottle of Valium. 

Holden leans heavily against the sink. “I’m fine, Bill.”

“You’re not.” Bill says, uncapping the bottle. “Hold out your hand.”

Holden presses his eyes shut for a moment before opening his hand

Bill taps two of the pills into his palm, and cranks on the faucet. 

Holden pops the pills in his mouth, and bends down to cradle his hands under the stream of water. He drinks from his palms and swallows the pills down before straightening. 

Bill grabs a handful of paper towels and offers them to him. 

“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” Bill asks, tamping down his budding concern with the gruff observation. 

“He wasn’t talking.” Holden whispers, tossing the balled up paper towels into the bin with a heavy sigh. “We knew we were going to have to bring in the picture of his sister.”

“Yeah, we knew that. We didn’t know he was going to physically assault you.” Bill says, “We’re going to have to write up a report, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Holden says, rubbing his eyelids.

The bathroom is quiet for a moment, the seconds punctuated solely by the drip of water hitting the sink drain. 

Bill curls his hands into a fist at his sides, holding himself back from touching Holden again. His chest is still pounding with lingering adrenaline, but deeper, some primal part of his brain wants to reach out and wrap Holden up in his arms until the fear retreats and the assault is nothing more than a bad dream. 

Holden draws in a shaky breath. “Thank you, Bill.”

“For what?” 

Holden peeks up at him, eyes wide and tentative. “For what you did. He could have really hurt me.”

“I wasn’t going to let that happen.” Bill says, “But I hope you learned something in there about which lines not to cross.”

Holden mouth purses in a meek smile. “Yeah.”

Bill sighs, and shifts closer, his gaze wandering over Holden’s neck. “Is your throat okay?”

Holden lifts his chin, and loosens his tie. “Yeah, it’s a little sore.”

Bill clenches his jaw. His hand rises, unbidden. Holden’s skin is soft beneath his thumb, his pulse pounding vividly, his throat knotting with a thick swallow. He shifts closer into Bill’s caress, his eyelids slipping shut over hazy blue still faintly moist. 

Bill retrieves his hand, but Holden leans into him, the weight of his body settling into Bill’s chest with a deflating sigh. His forehead nestles against Bill’s shoulder, neatly as if that’s right where it belongs. 

Bill hesitates to return the embrace as a ripple of tension draws his muscles taut. Their reflection is barely a foot away, sudden, quiet intimacy retained in the water-stained glass. Bill glances away from the mirror, ignoring the pang of panic that runs through his chest at their closeness. Despite the tremor working down his spine, he settles his palm against Holden’s back. For a moment, the world stops its violent turning, and the fire in his blood cools down to a contented warmth. 

It lasts for just a minute, but when Holden pulls away, Bill feels a dismayed yearning open up in his chest. 

They don’t exchange anymore words as they go back down the hall to retrieve their things. The warden is waiting for them with the proper paperwork. Bill fills out the report, including everything except the private embrace - that moment he will quietly carry with him back home. 


	15. changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: After Atlanta, Jim joins the Bureau. Holden and Jim get a lot closer. So close that Holden feels comfortable enough to confide things he's never told anyone else. Bill notices the close bond and feels out of sorts, wasn't HE Holden's partner? Bill jumps to the wrong conclusions. Things come to a head in a heated argument between Bill and Jim. Neither man sees Holden too consumed in their argument.

When he and Nancy’s marriage started falling apart at the seams, Bill had spent a lot of time wishing for things to go back to the way they used to be. Before he was leaving every other day for road school - before he  _ wanted  _ to leave just to get away from the stifling silences. Before the difficulty of raising a child with special needs leveraged undue pressure on their relationship. Before she started drifting away from him, out of his reach. 

But everything changes in way one or another, and life is all about accepting those changes. He’s tried to teach himself that truth over and over. 

Over the next several months after Atlanta, Ted oversees the expansion of the unit. All too soon, Bill’s sequestered spot in the annex is overtaken by rookies and interns, a plethora of resources at their fingertips to aid in the fresh influx of investigations. 

Along with the new transcribers and equipment added to their arsenal is Jim Barney. Ted had been impressed with his role in the Atlanta case and the Hance and Piece interviews. A few pulled strings, and he’s a part of the team just like he should have been back when Gregg was hired. 

Bill should have been grateful for the extra help from someone who already has an idea what they’re doing. Ted’s plan to fast-track the study demands that they increase the speed of the interviews, and for that, they need team members who are willing and able. 

Instead, as he watches Holden and Jim’s professional relationship grow to one of mutual admiration and respect while he and Holden’s withers, he finds himself longing for the good old days again. Back when he and Holden were alive with the spark of this idea. Back when they were on the road together, alone, nothing but the radio and each other for company. Back when they talked to each other - not necessarily about matters of the heart, but about things that counted, and with unabashed honesty that was reserved for themselves and not anyone else. 

_ Maybe he’s just making the same goddamn mistakes over and over again.  _ He thinks one night as he watches Jim and Holden leave together to get drinks after work. 

Part of him is screaming that he should confront Holden. He and Jim have gone on the last three interviews together. Was it so long ago and Bill was his partner? Was it so long ago that they spoke to each other outside of group discussion on interviews? He thinks about it long and hard every few days only to realize how childish it sounds. Holden can be friends with whoever he wants. 

Early one Monday morning, Bill enters the BSU to see Jim leaning against Holden’s desk. He nods when Bill approaches. 

“Morning, Bill.”

“Morning, Jim.”

Holden glances up from the dossier on his desk. “Hey, Bill. We’re all meeting in the conference room in fifteen.” 

“Okay.” Bill says. 

He knocks on Wendy’s door, and pokes his head in. “Good morning. Are we looking at the interviews out in San Quentin?” 

“Yes.” She says, looking up from her notebook. “Have you looked them over?”

“Some. I’ve had a busy weekend.” Bill says, “It was my weekend with Brian.” 

“Not a problem. I’m sure Holden and Jim are up to date.”

Bill clenches his jaw. “We’ve got a few days. I’ll get there.”

She gives him a terse nod, and a smile. 

Muttering a curse under his breath, Bill goes over into the annex to retrieve the dossiers from his desk. They have two interviews scheduled back to back in California, a trip worthy of dedicated research that he simply hadn’t found the time for this weekend. 

Once they’re assembled in the conference room, Wendy starts going over the details. 

Bill anxiously lights a cigarette while Jim and Holden offer their opinion on preliminary profiles of the two men. 

“I think Jim and I can handle this one.” Holden says, “Bill can hold down the fort here in Quantico for a few days. Right, Bill?”

Bill casts Holden a sharp glance through the cloud of smoke pouring from his mouth. The taste of nicotine sours in the back of his throat as their gazes connect, a silent tension elongating between them like an overstretched rubber band. 

Bill clears his throat, “I thought Jim had that consult for Galveston.” 

“I do.” Jim says, “I can handle both.”

“It’s okay. You shouldn’t have to when my desk is clear.” Bill says. 

Silence settles across the conference room for a moment, and Bill hears Wendy draw in a stiff breath. 

“Jim has done the research.” Holden says, finally. 

“So have I.”

“Bill, it’s okay, really.” Jim says, his tone placating in a way that makes Bill’s teeth grind. “We understand that you have a lot going on right now with Brian-”

“Don’t bring my kid into this.” Bill interrupts, heat flaring hot in his chest before he can stop it. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“All due respect, but I think it does.”

“All due respect?” Bill echoes, acid seething into every word. “Let’s keep this professional, Jim. We’re talking about work, not family. And I’ve done the fucking research.”

“Bill, I think-” Wendy begins, her tone rushed as tension swells into the conference, sapping oxygen from the air. 

“Wendy, it’s okay.” Jim says, holding up a hand. “Bill, I’m sorry if I hit a nerve. I was simply trying to say that-”

“No, I get what you’re trying to say.” Bill says, tossing the folder onto the table, and rising from his chair. “And I’m not distracted or unfit for this job anymore because of what’s going on with Brian. I am still as committed to our work as when  _ Holden and I  _ founded this department.”

“Well, that’s somewhat juvenile, don’t you think?” Jim asks, his cool tone wavering as frustration seeps into his expression. “I have put a lot of effort into getting this position, Bill. More than you or Holden will ever have to experience.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bill says, “Now this is about race?”

“ _ Bill. _ ” Wendy says, sternly. “I think this discussion has gone far enough.”

“Far enough? How about too far?” Jim says, casting Bill a hurt glare. 

Bill glances away, feeling a pang of regret. 

“I think it’s best if this decision is made by an unbiased third party.” Wendy says, “Myself. And I think it would be best if Jim and Holden took this one.”

“You’re shitting me right?” Bill asks, swinging a glare in her direction, “Holden and I have been doing this shit since the very beginning. These are important interviews. You don’t think that I - a senior member of this department - should be a part of this level of classification?”

“Yes. And you can be part of the discussion.” Wendy says, “When Jim and Holden get back.”

Bill turns to cast Holden glance, to see if at least one person is on his side in this disagreement. But Holden is already getting up out of his chair, and marching out of the conference room. The door swings shut behind him, rattling the length of windows that encompass the room. 

Silence blankets the room as a suffocating layer of tension builds in his absence. 

“Great.” Bill says, getting up to follow him. “Then I guess it’s settled.” 

~

That evening, Bill lingers at his desk, smoking a cigarette and skimming through the San Quentin interview files. If he hadn’t digested them before, he’s gorged on them now, stubbornly trying to prove a point to himself if not everyone else. 

_ I’m not licking my wounds.  _ He thinks, taking a hard drag of his cigarette.  _ Just doing my job.  _

The annex is vacant except for him as he gets up from his desk for another cup of coffee. As he pours out the last dregs the interns had left behind, the door creaks open, casting yellow light from the hall across the shadowed bullpen. 

Bill turns to see Holden slipping inside, his hands tucked in his pockets. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Bill asks, managing an amiable tone. 

“I wanted to talk to you.” Holden says, his voice carrying in a tentative whisper across the room. 

Bill draws in a deep breath. Ripping open a sugar packet, he asks, “About what?”

“You know.” Holden says, “Earlier, in the conference room.”

Bill tosses the empty packet in the trash, and focuses on stirring the sugar into the lukewarm cup of coffee. 

“So, you’re here to lecture me.”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I just think you should apologize to Jim.” Holden says, making his way past empty desks to join Bill by the coffee stand. 

Bill takes a sip of the coffee, wincing at the stale flavor. “That’s what you think, hm?”

“Yes.” Holden says, “This isn’t about him.”

Bill stares into the black depths of the coffee, trying to ignore the heat curling up his throat as Holden’s gaze lands heavily on his temple. 

Holden sighs, and turns to lean his hips against the table. “It’s about me.”

“You?” Bill scoffs. 

“I have to admit, I didn’t think you were the jealous type.”

“Jealous. Now you’ve really got it wrong.”

The words have no more left his mouth than Bill looks up to see Holden gazing at him calmly, eviscerating honesty resting in the deep blue of his eyes. He glances away, fighting back the frustration rising in his chest. 

“Bill, the truth is, Jim and I have gotten to be close friends these last few months because I didn’t think we were anymore - not after Atlanta.”

“What?” Bill whispers, his throat thickening. 

“Look at you-” Holden says, motioning around the bullpen, “You’re over here in the annex by yourself, and have been since we got back from Vacaville. You didn’t tell me a thing about Brian until I forced you to. You shut me out.”

Bill lets out a feeble laugh, and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Holden, I … I don’t know what to say. I never meant to- … for us to-”

“To not be friends anymore?” Holden whispers. 

Bill’s eyes creep open to see Holden staring at the floor, his arms folded defensively over his chest. 

“Is that what you think?” Bill asks. 

“I don’t know. It’s how I feel.” 

Bill swallows hard against the lump forming in the back of his throat. “That isn’t what I want.”

Holden lifts his chin to meet Bill’s gaze, his mouth twitching with a faint smile. “You want to get out of here? Get a drink?”

Bill lets out a relieved laugh. “Yeah, I do.”

Holden shoves away from the table, nodding eagerly towards the door. 

Discarding the cold coffee, Bill grabs his wallet and keys from his office, and follows Holden out of the annex. The hallway echoes with their footfalls as they walk in stride down toward the elevator. 

“I still think Jim and I should take San Quentin.” Holden says, softly. 

Bill feels the frustration in his chest melt away as they step onto the elevator. He casts Holden an affable smile. “That’s more than fair.” 


	16. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: lazy morning prompt? they had a hard week apart from each other (not seeing each other for various reasons) bill comes back from a trip in the middle of the night and holden doesn’t realize he’s back until the next morning

Bill jolts awake to the sound of the airplane captain’s voice coming over the loudspeaker, warning all of the passengers to put their seatbelts on for the descent into Dulles. His dry, exhausted eyelids crack open to glimpse the speckled glow of the city below through the portal window of the plane, growing closer and closer until he can see the veiny network of interstates and highways. 

Stuffing the case file still open in his lap into his briefcase, he tugs his seatbelt on, and impatiently waits through the fluctuating cabin pressure while the plane sinks towards the tarmac. Behind the dark sheen of his eyelids, he can still see the tormented faces of the victims. Now that he’s so close to home, he doesn’t quite have the stomach for it. 

He and Holden had spent the last few weeks out in Washington, pulling bodies out of rivers. They’d had less an hour to celebrate the victory before Ted called, ordering Holden back to Quantico for a conference with the director. Bill was to stay behind in Washington and tie up the loose ends of the investigation, file the final reports, and make a lasting impression with the local police. As they near the last stages of the study, Ted is more keen than ever to make them the first call on homicide cases. 

For now, Bill is sick of looking at it. Relief swamps his frayed nerves as the bump of the wheels setting down on the tarmac jars his eyes open again. 

The airport is half-deserted at this late hour. Bill makes his way to baggage claim without delay, and gathers his bag before heading out into the garage where his vehicle is waiting for him in long-term parking. 

Traffic is light, making for an easy trip home. The house is dark when he arrives, all the lights shut off now that the hour is creeping past one o’clock. He quietly makes his way inside, leaving his luggage discarded in the living room, and wandering down the hallway to the bedroom. 

Pale moonlight peeks past the curtains, bathing the bed in a languid glow. The sheets are a tangled mess, always. Heavy, hitched breaths emanate from beneath the pile of pillows that all but conceal dark brown curls above creamy, relaxed shoulders. 

Bill leans against the doorframe, taking in the serendipitous scene for a long moment. A held tension deep in his chest unwinds. When they’re knee deep in an investigation, getting far too close to an edge of undiscovered darkness, he clings onto a steely, impenetrable mindset that gets him through the toughest parts of their job, but now he sets it down behind him where it can’t touch the peace of these four walls. 

A yawn creeps up from his belly, and he silences it with his knuckles. Stripping down to his underwear, he shuffles across the carpet and crawls slowly onto the mattress. The bed groans quietly beneath his weight as he carefully lifts the sheets over himself, and settles down next to the radiating warmth of slumbering limbs. 

Holden is sleeping on his stomach, head half-buried under the pillows. He barely makes a sound when Bill curls up close to him, pressing his cheek to the silky soft skin between his shoulder blades. The smell of him is the closest thing to relief - warm, clean, fresh like pine and cinnamon. A sigh falls from Bill’s lips, and all the rigidity melts from his muscles. It’s good to be home. 

~

Holden wanders slowly from sleep, every limb and muscles limp and heavy as if intoxicated by dreams. The bed is warm, awash in early morning sunlight, and even before his eyelids creep open, he can sense that he isn’t alone. 

Rolling over, Holden opens his eyes to see the mound of Bill’s shoulders concealed beneath the blankets, the broad expanse of his back tucked up against Holden’s shoulder. He’s still asleep by the sound of his deep, cadenced breaths. 

A smile tugs at Holden’s mouth as he blinks against the daylight. The warm silence is softly broken by birdsong from outside the window, but the house is otherwise quiet and undisturbed. He’d gone to bed alone last night, counting the hours until Bill would be returning home from Washington, his lonely body longing for some warmth beside him. Maybe there is some higher power after all. 

Holden rolls onto his side, adhering his chest to Bill’s back, and delving his hand underneath of the sheets to wrap it around Bill’s waist. Burying his mouth and nose in Bill’s neck, he hums a contented sigh that’s momentarily met by a stirring grunt from deep in Bill’s chest. 

Holden pushes up onto his elbow to see Bill’s eyelids fluttering open. 

“Good morning.” He says. 

“‘Morning.” Bill whispers, his voice scratchy from sleep. “What time is it?”

Holden shoots a glance at the clock. “Seven-thirty.”

“It’s so early.” Bill complains, pressing a hand over his face. 

“Sorry.” Holden whispers, sheepishly, tucking his chin against Bill’s shoulder. “I was just happy to wake up with you here. I didn’t think you would get back today - or yesterday.”

“It was past one in the morning.” Bill says, sighing heavily. “I’m getting too fucking old for this.”

“Okay, I’ll let you go back to sleep.” Holden says, leaning back on his elbow. 

“I don’t think so.” Bill mutters, rolling over to catch him by the wrist. 

Holden purses his mouth over a chuckle as Bill reels him in, wrapping both arms around his waist to pin him to his chest. 

“Come here.” Bill murmurs, “I’m awake now so you better give me a kiss.”

Holden leans in to press a kiss to Bill’s mouth, uttering a pleased chuckle as Bill’s fingers wind into his hair. He can feel his limbs melting into Bill’s as the kiss lingers, mouth stroking gently against one another, taking their time mapping one another’s lips and tongues after the long hours spent apart. Need stirs in his belly, a humming warmth that begs for soft fingers, kisses tumbling lower, just enough pressure to make him ache with need that seems to last forever until the tension breaks. 

Bill pushes up on his elbow, turning Holden down against the sheets with little effort. Holden goes compliantly, moaning delightedly as Bill’s fingers wander down his chest and belly, finding him already hard and pulsing through his underwear. 

From there, the morning unfolds slowly, achingly. Bill’s hands and mouth slowly take him apart, piece by piece, until he’s a quivering mass of needs and throbbing flesh; and Holden moans but he doesn’t beg, too relieved to have that touch back against him again after the brief yet unbearable absence to even consider complaining of the gradual pace. Bill pins him gently to the sheets as he thrusts inside, his grinding, simmering pace making them both pant and groan with dizzy, heated longing. 

An hour later, they’re collapsed in the sheets, limp legs entangled. Bill presses his forehead against Holden’s cheek as he traces his fingertips down Holden’s chest and the quivering plane of his belly. 

“Christ, I missed you.” He whispers. 

“I missed you, too. Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Bill’s thumb counts the ridges of Holden’s ribs, stroking so gently that it almost tickles, but Holden doesn’t move. He closes his eyes, savoring the overload of sensation trickling through his placated body. 

Bill is asleep again before he reaches the bottom of Holden’s ribcage, his hand going limp against Holden’s skin before falling away to the bedsheets. His forehead leans into Holden’s cheek, and heavy breaths gust against Holden’s throat. 

The sunlight sharpens, daylight swelling into the shadowed corners of the room, warning lazy bodies to get up before the hours are wasted. But Holden doesn’t want to move, not in this minute, not for the next hour or maybe two. 

The last few weeks out on consult across the country had nearly drained him to the point of exhaustion, after which he’d been forced to go play politics with Ted and the director. Alone. And despite his years being single, he’d never realized just how much he hates being alone until this week, how much he longs for the simple intimacy of sleeping beside someone else in bed, someone you truly need. 

Holden wraps his arm tighter around Bill’s shoulder, pulling his slumbering weight closer.  _ Never again.  _ He thinks, though he can’t promise himself that with any certainty. Still, this moment, washed in sunlight and warm contentment, feels like it might never end. It’s good to be home. 


	17. the mutt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oringial prompt from mindhunnter: holden wants to get a puppy

Chilly, spring rain tumbles from the thick, gray clouds in driving sheets, glazing the crumbling asphalt of the narrow, residential lane and catching the reflection of a dozen red and blue police lights flashing out into the night. The steady drum of it against the roof fills the hollow silence of the house that’s broken only intermittently by the whine and click of the camera shutter. 

Bill and Holden survey the cramped living room that’s littered with empty beer bottles, pizza boxes, and dozens and magazines and newspapers. The scene in the kitchen is just as filthy and depressing - plates piled high in the sink, garbage can overflowing, refrigerator reeking of spoiled milk and God knows what else. 

“I want to see the basement.” Holden says. 

Bill draws in a deep breath, and nods. 

They make their way carefully past the officers collecting evidence and down the hallway to the door leading into the basement. 

The mystery of three dead women spanning two decades in this small, West Virginia town had at last been broken when the unsub’s most recent victim managed to escape this house, formerly her prison. The man had kept her here, locked up in the basement, for the last five years, raping and torturing her as he saw fit. 

Nothing could have prepared Bill for the dense, sick weight that settles in the pit of his stomach as he and Holden descend the narrow, wooden stairs into the basement. The unsub’s torture chamber is a cement-walled dungeon, musky and dark. A cage shoved in the corner of the room is meant for an animal, but had housed four victims over the course of twenty years. A workbench is littered with instruments of torture and restraints. A hook bolted to the ceiling in the center of the room had once provided a display of the victim for his amusement. 

Holden reaches over to turn on the light switch. At once, the basement is flooded with sharp, yellow light, but neither of them have a chance to comment on the horrifying details as a growl and a rattle of chain from the corner draws their attention away from the scene of torture. 

Holden backpedals into Bill’s chest, a gasp leaping from his chest as black dog lunges from it’s restraint in the corner. The animal is growling low in its throat, teeth bared, frothing at the mouth, it’s entire, scrawny body shaking. Right away, Bill can tell it’s some kind of mutt, another breed mixed in with pit bull based on the ears and the size of it’s head. 

“Jesus Christ.” Holden says, “He was keeping a dog down here, too?”

“We need to call the dog warden.” Bill says, clutching Holden’s elbow. 

Holden shuffles forward despite Bill’s grasp on his arm. He holds out a non-threatening hand as he approaches the dog. The dog whines, then barks, pacing back and forth against it’s short leash. It’s dark gaze is trained on Holden, mistrust shining clearly past the unhealthy film glazing it’s eyes. 

“Hey there, buddy. It’s okay.” Holden says, crouching down, “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Don’t get close to it.” Bill says, “It’s gonna bite your hand off.”

“He’s starving.” Holden says, shooting a glare over his shoulder. “Poor thing. He’s probably been down here as long as Kristen was.”

“Yeah, and if it’s been abused it might try to bite you. Come on.” Bill says, leaning down to grasp Holden by the arm. “Let’s just call the warden.”

Holden rises to his feet, shaking Bill’s grip off. “Fine. But he goes to the vet, not the pound.”

Bill suppresses a sigh. It’s late, and they’ve been working this case off-and-on for the last year and a half. They both know the details backwards and forwards. They know everything Kristen, the last victim, and all the rest went through. They know every depraved thing the killer did to these women. And Holden is worried about the damn dog. 

“Fine.” Bill says. 

~

When Bill and Holden were first contacted by the local authorities in Marling, West Virginia, their relationship had been infantile and fledgling. Bill can remember crawling onto the bed and slipping his hand under the back of Holden’s t-shirt while Holden opened the case file on the mattress in front of him. Their bodies were warm and connected while the first, horrific details crossed their minds. 

Bill had resigned himself to the fact long ago that death and depravity was always going to come second-nature to their relationship. The darkness seeps into every crevice, every available space in your mind. Eventually, it houses itself right next to the good things, the light beside the dark. Gray areas in between are fleeting, and he tries to keep everything separate, but he can’t help but glimpse the way their work affects Holden - and in turn, them. 

_ Maybe they’re both overworked.  _ Bill thinks as he lights a cigarette outside the police department’s bullpen. 

He checks his watch to see that it’s almost ten o’clock. He’d filed the last report while Holden took the unsub’s dog to the vet. He hadn’t stuck around to see the warden coax the poor, starved animal out of the basement, and now he wonders if Holden had sustained a bite trying to get the hardened beast to trust him. 

After smoking the last of his cigarette, Bill goes back into the bullpen to find the chief of police’s office. Waters is hunched over his desk, necktie undone. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. None of them have. 

“Anything else you need from me?” Bill asks. 

Waters glances up from his reports, offering a weak smile. “Nothing but a sincere ‘thank you’, I suppose.”

Bill nods, “It was our pleasure.”

Rising to his feet, Waters offers Bill a handshake. “Truly, Bill, we couldn’t have done it without you.”

“We were glad to help. This one’s been a long time coming.”

“You ain’t kidding.” Waters says, shaking his head. “I’m gonna go home, kiss my wife, have a drink, and celebrate. We don’t get these days every day.”

“You deserve it.”

“What are you gonna do?” Waters asks, “I feel like you’ve been in this as long as some of my guys.”

“About the same, I guess.” Bill says. 

The drive across town the veterinarian’s office is brief, but the downpour forces Bill to stay on high alert despite the exhaustion tugging at his limbs. When he reaches the office, there’s only two cars in the parking lot, and he figures nobody else is bothering the vet at this time of day. 

Bill goes inside to find the front desk and waiting area deserted. The faint sound of voices from down the hall leads him to the exam room where the vet has the skinny mutt lying on the table. The animal seems more sedate now, and Holden is hand-feeding him cut up pieces of meat. 

Bill clears his throat in the doorway. 

Holden glances up, a smile fixed on his mouth despite the dark circles under his eyes. 

“Bill, come on in.” He says, nodding for Bill to join him. 

“How’s he doing?” Bill asks. 

“A lot better.” Holden says, “Dr. Cormick looked him over, gave him his shots, a bath, and now he’s letting me feed him. I think he’s gonna be okay.”

Dr. Cormick nods, and strokes a hand down the dog’s back. “No doubt he’s been through a lot, but surprisingly, there aren’t really any serious health concerns aside from fleas and worms.”

“Great.” Bill says, “What about his behavior, though? He’s calm now, but what about if some kid scares him or he feels threatened?”

“He’s definitely a special case.” Cormick says, “He’ll need a good, understanding home.”

“You know anybody?” Bill asks, offering a faint chuckle. 

Holden draws in a deep breath. “Bill, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

Holden gives the plate of food to Cormick, and leads Bill back out into the hallway. 

“Holden-” Bill begins, seeing the look in his eyes. 

“What? I haven’t said anything yet.”

“But I know what you’re going to say.” Bill says, “And we can’t take this dog home with us.”

“Why not?” Holden asks, crossing his arms. “The doctor just said he needs an understanding home, and who better understands what this animal has been through than us?”

“We’re never home.” Bill says, spreading his hands in disbelief. “How would we take care of a dog, Holden? Come on, think this through.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Holden says. 

Bill exhales a strained sigh, and shakes his head. 

“They’re just going to send him to the pound, Bill.” Holden says, “Then what? Nobody is going to adopt an animal that looks and behaves like this. Chances are he stays locked up for a couple of weeks, maybe a few months, and then gets put down because they don’t have enough room to keep him around.”

“Maybe so.” Bill says, “It’s just a dog, Holden. We caught a killer today. A woman, a human being, got to go back to her family after years of imprisonment and abuse.  _ This  _ is what you’re concerned with?”

Holden turns to lean against the wall, and lowers his head. Bill can see his jaw working against emotion. 

“You don’t get it.” Holden whispers, his voice strained. 

“Get what?”

“Never mind.” Holden mutters, shoving away from the wall. “Forget it. If you say we can’t keep him, then I guess that’s that.”

“Holden-” 

Holden is already marching back into the exam room, leaving Bill standing alone in the hall. He lets out a sigh, and rubs a hand over his forehead. Maybe he’s exhausted, or tired of arguing. Maybe he just wants to go home already, and Holden isn’t going to let him rest until he gets his way. Maybe there’s some soft place left in his heart that hasn’t been ravaged and turned to scar tissue by death and destruction. 

Letting out a grunt of disbelief, Bill strides back into the exam room. Holden and Dr. Cormick look up at him, and he spreads his hands in defeat before he can stop himself. 

“Okay, what do we need to do?”

“Do?” Cormick asks. 

“To take the mutt home.” Bill says, “Is there some kind of adoption papers we have to sign?”

“Ah, yes.” Cormick says, “Let me get it together. Then we can all go home.”

“Sounds good.”

Cormick leaves the room, and Bill catches Holden smiling brightly at him. 

“Don’t say anything.” Bill says, shaking his head. “I’m already regretting this.”

“You won’t.” Holden says, “It’s all going to work out exactly the way it should.” 


	18. drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from lowkeystandom: i really really love how you write kink between them. the power exchange is subtle but palpable. we don't see a ton of aftercare (although we have once or twice!), and i know a lot of that fits well with the story (they're still coming to terms with what they've done once the lust has passed). could we see some more extended aftercare? what does it look like for Bill to tend to Holden after he's broken him down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this prompt! I’ve also been thinking a lot about Holden and his anxiety/panic disorder after finishing reading the Mindhunter book by John Douglas. If anyone doesn’t know, Douglas suffered a bout of viral encephalitis that was partially brought on by the massive stress of his job. At the time, he was the only person in the BSU working profiling full time and was working over 100 cases by himself! While in Seattle for the Green River killer (a case which went unsolved until 2001), he became critically ill and was in the hospital for weeks. Before reading the book, I had no idea just how substantial Douglas’s workload was at the time. I’ve been wanting to use the details of that case in my writing so this is the perfect opportunity. This is also goes really well with my fragile series so I’m thinking of this as a little vignette to that ‘verse.

The Seattle skyline beyond the hotel window blurs into a mass of winking lights and distant starlight as Holden’s body sinks weightlessly into the sheets. Every inch of him is quivering, flinching; he feels raw and used in every way he’s been longing for since the start of this investigation, a seemingly endless parade of decomposed corpses being dragged from the Green River. 

For much of the first two weeks, they hadn’t found the time or energy for this kind of privacy, but it’s been two days since they discovered another dead prostitute in the water. Finally, a breather. 

Bill knows him well enough to see when it’s all becoming too much, when the waves are creeping up over his mouth and nose, when he’s starting to feel like he’s coming apart. He had suggested they take an early day today instead of spending the entire afternoon at the precinct, pouring over details that they’ve already looked at a hundred times before. But instead of getting drinks like he’d told the local cops they were doing, he’d brought Holden straight back to the hotel room. 

Ten flights above the ground, no one else could see when Bill pushed him up against the wall and kissed him until he couldn’t breathe. No one could see when he ordered Holden to strip down and lie on the bed. The taut burn of the tie knotting around his wrists and securing him to the headboard was solely for him, an act of deviancy so far and wide from anything they study that at this point Holden can’t feel any kind of guilt in it. There’s always something tender in the violence of Bill’s hand breaking him, a warm, bubbling security in the pain slowly inching him towards the edge of the breaking point. One word from Holden and it would stop immediately, but that isn’t what he wants; and he trusts Bill to push him just hard enough to break, but not so hard that a gentle touch afterward can’t put him back together again. 

Now, two hours later, he’s lying in a heap of disassembled pieces, his limbs useless and humming, his body crying out in equal measures of pain and pleasure. It’s all over and quiet; the tears slipping from his eyelids are drying quickly. The weight is gone from his chest, replaced by a warm buoyancy, a great relief, a continuing exhale of satisfaction. 

Holden’s gaze drifts from the fuzzy lights outside the window when Bill slips back into the room with a bucket of ice. His movements are steady and practiced as he retrieves a bottle of water from the minifridge, and uses a few of the ice cubes to prepare a glass of whiskey. He sets the two drinks on the nightstand, and goes into the bathroom to retrieve a hand towel that he packs with the rest of the ice. 

When he comes back to the bed, he removes the knotted tie from around Holden’s wrists. As the pressure on his pulse lets up, Holden feels the hot rush of blood and the raw sting of his chafed skin reawakening. He swallows back a whimper of pain. 

Bill tosses aside the tie, and bends to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You okay?”

Holden nods. “Yes.”

“Here.” Bill says, uncapping the water bottle.

Holden shoots a glance at the whiskey. “I’m not allowed to have a drink after all that?”

“Water first.”

Holden represses a sigh, and takes the water bottle. Pushing up onto his elbows, he takes a long drink. 

Bill sits down on the edge of the bed beside him, and grabs the towel packed with ice from the nightstand. Holden clenches his jaw as the ice pack comes in contact with his backside, scorched skin hissing with both shock and relief. 

Bill takes a drink of his whiskey, ice cubes rattling quietly against the glass. 

“I think we’ve done about all we can do here.” He says, softly. 

Holden peeks over his shoulder at Bill’s profile, rigid in the soft, yellow lamplight. 

“We have other cases.” Bill continues, “I’m calling Ted tomorrow.”

“I can handle it.” Holden says, mustering a confident tone. “It was just a bad day, that’s all-”

“I’m not just saying it for you.” Bill says, shifting his gaze to Holden’s naked, broken body sprawled across the bedsheets. He moves the ice pack to a fresh patch of inflamed skin. “We’re not any good to anyone when we’re both burned out.”

Holden turns his focus back to the Seattle skyline crystallizing beyond the filmy sheen of the curtains. He can almost see the Green River from this vantage point, but maybe that’s just his imagination. 

Bill draws in a deep breath, and crawls onto the bed beside Holden. Keeping the ice pack in place, he presses a slow row of kisses down Holden’s shoulder blade, into the dip of his spine. 

Holden hums a sound of satisfaction, and lets his head drop to the pillows. The simmering smattering of kisses awakens new sensation, the gentility that follows the viciousness, the new, aching pleasure that can only be reached after the hardened exterior has been broken down and destroyed. Tears rush sudden and hot to his eyes, not from the pain like before, but out of something much worse. 

Bill lifts his head, and Holden quickly muzzles his misery in the pillow. 

“Hey, hey.” Bill says, concern bleeding into the low rumble of his voice. “Holden.”

“It’s okay.” Holden mumbles into the pillow, his throat thick with emotion. “I’m fine.”

Setting aside the ice pack, Bill sits up against the headboard, and drags Holden’s limp body into his arms. 

Holden presses his eyes shut as he settles down against Bill’s chest. Bill’s hand cradles his cheek, smoothing away the escaped tears as they trickle from the corner of his eye. 

“It’s going to be okay.” Bill says, the sound of his voice vibrating low in his chest against Holden’s ear. “Hear me?”

Holden nods. 

“Say it.” Bill urges, softly. 

Holden draws in a deep breath, trying to force out the shudder in his lungs, but he feels like he’s simply inhaling water. 

“The profile …” He whispers, “It doesn’t make sense for all of them, does it?”

Bill holds him closer. “What do you mean?”

“There’s more than one.” Holden says, “All the murders are similar, but not the same. I think there could be two unsubs, possibly three.”

Bill’s frown deepens. 

“How are we supposed to catch three unsubs if we can’t even catch one?” Holden asks, his voice hardening against the tears. 

“We’re doing the best we can.”

Holden pushes his forehead into Bill’s chest, trying to impress that thought into his mind, but it's a mantra he knows all too well - a mantra his anxieties can easily hurdle. 

“It just feels like I’m drowning with them some days.” He whispers. 

Retrieving Holden’s limp hand from the sheets, Bill lifts his raw wrist into a kiss. His breath trickles warmly down the inside of Holden’s forearm, soothing in a way that’s just as revolutionary as the burn of a hand across his backside. 

“I’m not going to let that happen.” Bill says, his voice unwavering. 

Holden sniffles quietly. 

“Do you believe me?” Bill asks. 

“Yes.” Holden whispers, his voice small and quivering. 

“Okay.” Bill says, “You need some rest. Let’s get a shower, and we can go to bed.”

Holden utters a whimpered complaint. His body is finally feeling unwound and relaxed, not wanting to move from its place wrapped up in the bed sheets and cuddled against Bill’s chest. 

“I’m not putting you to bed like this.” Bill says, gently chiding. “Come on.”

Bill wrangles Holden’s pliant body from the sheets, and leads them to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, he lets the water get hot before motioning Holden inside. He slides the glass door shut behind them, closing them off from the hotel room and the rest of the world. 

As the water pounds across Holden’s back, and the soap cleanses away his sweat and tears, he at last feels the prickle of anxiety drop entirely away from his mind. Maybe it's just the implacable exhaustion of too many long nights finally catching up with him, but when Bill holds him underneath the warm water, he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning any longer. 


	19. endymion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from lowkeystandom: i loved in "two inches to the left" the brief mention of Bill's apartment being almost barren and impersonal--would love to see something about Holden moving in and helping fill those spaces. whether it's them actively doing it together, or Bill realizing after awhile that Holden has helped him make a house into a home, so to speak.

Holden hadn’t had many stipulations when he agreed to move in. The only thing he wanted to bring from his old, bachelor lifestyle was his collection of books. In his old apartment, he didn’t have much room for the ever-growing number of paperbacks, and a dismaying handful of them had never made it outside of his moving boxes. 

In retrospect, he’d never meant to stay at that apartment for so long. When he’d first returned from his brick agent days in Chicago, he’d rented the apartment with the plan - or rather belief - that he’d soon get back into the dating pool and find someone to move on with. As it turned out, his new job in hostage negotiation hadn’t afforded him much time to break into the dating scene.

It wasn’t until he met Debbie that he thought he might be onto something. But Debbie wasn’t all that interested in hanging around his apartment or his book collection. She had her own books and ideas, and so the paperbacks stayed in their boxes. Then came Kemper and the study, profiling, consults, work days that bled into one another with few breaks in between. Holden’s book collection gathered dust in his guest bedroom even as it continued to grow. 

They’re enjoying an unusual weekend off in downtown Fredricksburg when Holden pulls Bill into a vintage book shop that’s displaying a second edition of John Keats in the window. 

Bill looks on in amusement as Holden forks over the cash for the volume. 

“I didn’t know you were a poetry guy.”

“You learn something new every day.” Holden says, gleefully taking the bag from the cashier. “I have a pretty big collection of books in my apartment. I just don’t have the time to read all of them.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, mostly still boxed up.” Holden says as they step out of the shop and back onto the bustling sidewalk. “I don’t have a shelf for them.”

“We should get you one.”

“Maybe we can.” Holden says, “That giant, bare wall in your living room would make the perfect spot.”

Maybe he hadn’t really meant to say it, or though it would come out as a jest. But Bill stops walking behind him, and Holden gets several feet up the sidewalk before he realizes Bill isn’t matching his pace. 

“What?” Holden asks, wandering back down the sidewalk to Bill’s side. 

“Are you inviting yourself to move in with me?” Bill asks, a conflicted look of disbelief and eagerness colliding in the lopsided smile on his mouth. 

“It was a joke.” Holden says, giving a forced chuckle. “Right?”

Bill shrugs. “A joke. Sure.”

The joke lasts for a week before Bill brings it up again. They’re lying in a hotel bed across the country, in California where the sun is shining through the window, and the air on the West Coast is starting to have a familiar tang. 

Bill’s fingertips wander down Holden’s arm, awakening goosebumps. 

“It’s not such a bad idea, you know.” He says, “You moving in with me.”

“You think so?”

“Mhm. We practically live together as it is.” 

“It would be more efficient.” Holden says, adjusting his cheek against Bill’s shoulder, and smoothing a hand over his bare ribs. “One mortgage, fewer bills …”

“I’m not talking about that.” 

Holden slowly lifts his head from Bill’s chest. Bill’s eyes are somber, that storm-cloud gray that makes Holden want to live inside them - and now he can have it every day without interruption if he wants. 

“Me either. Not really.” He whispers, his chest aching with a sudden joyful longing. 

Though they never really said it aloud, the decision had already been made. The next week when they get back into town, Holden cleans out his apartment. The last thing he loads up are the boxes of books which has now grown to an even six. The Keats book is sitting on the top of the last box that he slides into his trunk. A smile fixes itself on his mouth as he climbs behind the wheel and drives away from Essex House for the last time. 

~

The power drill whirs as it slides the last nail in place, completing the polished, walnut bookcase Holden had picked from a dozen other choices at the store. Bill sets the tool aside, and runs a hand across the finished corner. 

“You think it’s big enough?” He asks, shooting a teasing glance at the stacks of boxes sitting in the corner of the living room. 

“It better be.” Holden says, climbing to his feet. “Here, help me stand it up.”

They each take an end, carefully pulling the bookcase up from the floor, and guiding it to its spot along the wall. Bill takes a step back to survey the new fixture in his living room. Aside from a few pictures of Brian, there aren’t many personal touches in his house. He’d moved in here a few months after the divorce was finalized, and had never taken the time to decorate. He kept the place clean, but with the amount of traveling they do for work, the house had sat mostly empty for the past few years, looking more like the inside of a home improvement magazine than a lived-in, nurtured space. The simple addition of the bookcase feels revolutionary, but it isn’t just the piece of furniture that’s injecting warmth into this previously cold space. 

Bill slips his arm around Holden’s waist, and pulls him to his side. 

“It looks good, baby.” 

“Yeah, really good.” Holden whispers, resting his head on Bill’s shoulder. 

Bill glances down when he hears Holden sniffs, quietly. “Hey, what’s the matter? Don’t tell me you hate it.”

“I don’t. I love it.” Holden says, casting Bill a misty gaze and trembling smile. “It’s what I always wanted.”

Bill gives his lower back a reassuring pat. “Good. How about we put the books up there?”

“Okay.” 

Holden drags out the first box with a delicate touch, almost a reverence. He takes out each book, inspecting the spine carefully before arranging them on the shelf. Bill grabs the second box, and starts from the other side of the bookshelf. They meet in the middle after unpacking the sixth and final box. There’s still one empty shelf. 

“And room for more.” Bill observes. 

“You shouldn’t encourage me.” Holden says, “I have a real problem. I haven’t read half of the books I already have.”

“Why not?”

“Do I seem like a guy with a lot of time on his hands?” Holden asks, running his fingertips along the spines of the books. 

“We could make time.” Bill says. 

Holden casts him a fond glance. “I would love that.”

“How about a drink?” Bill says, climbing to his feet. 

“Yeah, sounds good.” 

Holden lingers by the bookshelf while Bill gets up to retrieve glasses. Among his drink selections is a good bottle of scotch Wendy had bought him when they finished the study. She’d told him to open it on a special occasion. He hadn’t found that moment until now. 

Grabbing the scotch and the glasses, Bill goes back into the living room to find Holden sitting cross-legged on the carpet with the Keats book open in his lap. 

Bill pours them both a drinks, and offers a glass to Holden. Sitting down on the floor beside Holden, he wraps an arm around him, and peeks over his shoulder at the words on the page. 

“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.” He reads the first few lines quietly. 

Holden glances over at him, a smile quivering on his mouth for a moment before he presses a kiss to Bill’s mouth. When he leans back, he laughs quietly, “I never thought I would hear you read poetry to me.”

“Neither did I.” Bill says, chuckling into his sip of scotch. 

He tightens his grasp around Holden’s waist, impressing the warmth of Holden’s body into his mind like some kind of signpost that this moment is real - just as real as precinct after precinct, dead bodies, killers, questions in the dark. And it’s not just the poetry that’s surprising; he never really thought these four walls would feel like a real home. He thought he’d lost that forever. 

“Keep going.” Holden whispers. 

Bill takes another drink of the scotch to loosen the thickness in his throat before he turns his gaze back to the old words on the page trodding across his mind now as if they were somehow new and radical. 

_ “Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing _

_ A flowery band to bind us to the earth, _

_ Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth _

_ Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, _

_ Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways _

_ Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, _

_ Some shape of beauty moves away the pall _

_ From our dark spirits.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the [excerpt of the poem](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44469/endymion-56d2239287ca5) by John Keats that I used for this fic!


	20. you're just too good to be true

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: oh, a prompt: anything involving holden singing and bill being 👀👀👀

For a long time, Bill would wake up every Saturday morning with the jolt of fear that it was just another weekday, another trip to work, another twelve hours of staring at dead bodies in crime scene photographs. Because it was the only thing that occupied his thoughts, with his son’s stressful situation coming in close second, it would take him all of Saturday to entirely relax; by that time, Sunday was quickly approaching and speeding by. 

For a long time, he thought living with unrelenting stress and dread was going to last forever. 

This morning, his body awakens slowly, and he’s aware of the warmth and softness of the sheets and his place among them before his eyelids crack open to the sunlight drowning the room in dazzling, white light. His limbs are relaxed, scattered across the bed in a drowsy sprawl. He’s content. And he doesn’t think about work or the stack of case files sitting on his desk - just about the fact that he fell asleep with Holden beside him, but Holden isn’t anywhere to be found right this moment. 

Bill rolls over, and blinks against the morning sunlight to see the other side of the bed empty. Before he can have a chance to be disappointed or curious, his ears pick up the sound of the shower running from the otherwise silence of the house. 

Climbing out of bed, Bill throws on his robe, and wanders out into the hallway. Holden’s tennis shoes, track pants, and sweatshirt are lying in a crumpled heap by the closed bathroom door. 

Bill scoffs a chuckle. He could never imagine getting himself up at the crack of dawn on the weekend for a morning run, but they all have their own little rituals to keep themselves healthy and sane. 

He turns to go into the kitchen to start breakfast, but quickly stops when he hears Holden’s voice rising above the steady drum of the water. At first, it’s just a low, lazy humming, but the lyrics of the song quickly emerge fully-formed in an energetic tenor. It takes Bill only a moment to place the song as “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.” 

A smile tugs at his mouth as he leans his shoulder against the doorjamb and inclines his ear to the door. He’s never heard Holden sing before, but he shouldn’t have been surprised that he’s quite good. Holden has a lot of talents, a few Bill is just now beginning to become aware of and appreciate. 

Holden sings all the way through the second verse and the chorus before the water shuts off, and he goes back to humming distractedly. Bill hears the shower curtain pull back, and quickly sneaks back down the hallway to the kitchen. Undoubtedly, Holden would be mortified if he knew Bill was listening. 

Bill puts on a pot of coffee, and starts whisking eggs for a scramble. A few minutes later, Holden wanders into the kitchen in flannel trousers and a t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. He sneaks up behind Bill to plant a kiss on his cheeks. 

“This looks good. I’m starved.”

Bill pours the whisked eggs over diced peppers and onion. Nodding at the loaf of bread on the counter, he says, “You can put the bread in the toaster.”

Holden turns to open the bread, humming softly under his breath. 

Bill peeks a glance over his shoulder. Holden seems happy - and so is Bill - but he can’t help but be amused over this tiny piece of knowledge which had evaded him up until this point. 

“So, where’d you learn to sing like that?” Bill asks, using the spatula to slowly stir the eggs into a scramble. “Church choir?” 

“What?” 

Bill turns around to see Holden staring at him with wide eyes and blushing cheeks. He suppresses a chuckle. “What?” 

“I, uh … I just didn’t think you heard me.” Holden stammers, crossing his arms tightly around his middle. 

“I heard you.” Bill says, trying and failing not to grin at Holden’s deer-in-the-headlights expression. “You were giving Frankie Valli a run for his money there.”

Holden scoffs, “Yeah, right.” 

Bill sobers as Holden glances away, looking truly mortified. He sets the spatula aside, and turns to pull Holden to him by the waist. 

“Hey, I’m not teasing you.” Bill says, softly. 

“I know.” Holden says, defiantly lifting his chin. “That doesn’t stop me from being embarrassed, though. You weren’t supposed to hear me singing sappy love songs in the shower.” 

Bill chuckles, and bends to press a kiss to Holden’s mouth. Holden resists for mere seconds before relaxing against Bill’s chest, and opening his mouth to the gentle stroke of his tongue. 

Bill hums a sigh of relief as he leans back. “I kind of wish every morning started like this.”

Holden’s mouth squirms against a smile. “Yeah. Me too.” 

Bill kisses him again before pulling back with a strained sigh. “You’re going to make me burn the eggs.” 

“Me? I’m not doing anything.” 

“I know. But you’re just too good to be true, I can’t take my eyes off of you-”

“Okay, stop.” Holden says, punching his knuckles into Bill’s chest, and breaking them apart. “Now, I know you  _ are  _ teasing me.” 

“Sorry, can’t be helped.” Bill says, stifling a chuckle. 

He finishes cooking the eggs, and once the coffee is finished brewing, they take their plates and mugs out onto the back porch where the sunlight is highlighting the yard in a verdant glow. At the early hour, the neighborhood is quiet, not yet interrupted by the buzz of mowers or the shout of children playing. 

They share their breakfast in silence, and when Holden scrapes his plate clean, he moves from his chair to sit on Bill’s lap. Wrapping an arm around Holden’s waist, Bill leans in to nuzzle a kiss into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Holden leans back into it, muttering a sound of contentment. A soft, summer breeze begins to shift through the trees, and Holden hums low in his throat. Neither of them are laughing as the words emerge from the languishing tune:  _ you’re just too good to be true … _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a listen to [ "Can't Take My Eyes Off You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NGFToiLtXro) by Frankie Valli and the 4 Seasons. This song literally has a piece of my soul. My SO and I have a canvas print with the lyrics on it in our bedroom that's how much we love it. Peak romance!


	21. this much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: hey! i was rereading the summer of 81 for like, the millionth time, and seeing you wrote a little something for the fragile series, i was wondering if you'd do the same for this one? just like a little something about the in between during those 8 months the divorce stretched on for (holden being treated to a first row seat to nancy and bill's arguments). maybe some hurt/comfort? thanks ♥

Bill anxiously flicks the curtains back from the window to survey the snow-covered ground and wet street five floors below his apartment. On a Sunday afternoon in December, the street is quiet and half-deserted. Holden’s blue Nova would have stood out amongst the other drab-colored sedans lining the street. 

Repressing a sigh, Bill swipes his cigarettes from the coffee table, and lights up. In the dense silence of the apartment, the scrape of the lighter is loud and intrusive. He flicks the lighter shut, and tosses it on the coffee table with a clatter. He checks his watch, and tells himself to fucking relax already. 

They had been busy all week at work before Holden had left Friday afternoon for a conference in New York. With their little unit really taking off, interest in their work had skyrocketed over the past few months. When Holden had been invited to speak in front of hundreds of law enforcement officers from across the nation, he hadn’t hesitated to agree. 

Normally, Bill wouldn’t mind, but the last few weeks dealing with the divorce have been difficult to say the least. Nancy has cycled from disbelief and sadness to anger and questioning. It only makes sense. The initial shock has worn off, and her mind is filled with questions to which he may never be able provide adequate answers. After a rough week, he wants nothing more than to have Holden’s undivided attention, to at least distract himself from Nancy’s and the lawyer’s constant harping. 

Holden had called from the airport to say he was stopping by his apartment to drop some things off before heading over. Understandable, but Bill’s raw nerves can hardly handle the waiting. 

Suddenly, the telephone ringing cuts through the stifling silence of the apartment. Bill’s heart leaps in surprise, and he quickly leaves his cigarette in the ashtray to retrieve the phone in the kitchen. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me.” Nancy says, “Do you not return my calls anymore?”

Bill presses his eyes shut. “No, I’m sorry. I meant to call you back-”

“Meant to?” Nancy asks, exhaling a frustrated sigh. “I thought we were trying to work together on this.”

“We are. I’ve just had a very busy week at work.” 

“Did you at least acknowledge to your lawyer that the meeting got moved on Monday?” She asks, impatiently. 

“Yes. I’ll be there. 11:30.” 

“Good.” She says, her voice softening a bit, but not for his sake. She uses that voice when she wants to get something out of him that shouting won’t guarantee. “Fifty-fifty like we said?” 

“Yes.”

“Good. I just don’t want any surprises on Monday.”

“Surprises?” Bill echoes, frustration churning in his chest. “Just what the hell do you think I’m going to do here, Nance?” 

“I don’t know-”

He scoffs, pacing across the kitchen tile as far as the phone cord will allow. “We agreed months ago that we each got fifty percent when the house sold. I keep my word on these things. You know that.”

She sighs, but doesn’t agree aloud. He knows what she must be thinking.  _ Did I ever really know you at all?  _

“Once this is settled, it’s on to custody.” She says, finally. 

“We talked about that, too.” 

Bill glances up when the dull roar of annoyance in his mind is interrupted by a knock on the door. 

_ Shit. Must be Holden.  _ He thinks, gripping the phone tighter. 

“It’s open!” He yells at the front door. 

Holden slips inside, lugging a six-pack of beer in one hand and an overnight bag in the other. 

“I brought beer.” He says, holding the six-pack aloft. 

“Just a minute.” Bill says, cradling his hand over the receiver. 

“Oh, sorry.” Holden says, lowering his voice. 

“Was that him?” Nancy asks stiffly from the other end of the phone line. 

Bill braces his fingertips against his forehead, and turns his back to the living room. “Uh, yeah.”

“I see.” She says, “So that’s why you didn't call me back.”

“It had nothing to do with that.” Bill says, sharply. “And Holden was in New York all Friday and Saturday, if you have to know.” 

“But not today.” She says, tautly. “He can’t stay there with you, you know. We talked about that, too, remember?” 

“I know.” He says, trying to tamp down the anger beginning to boil in his chest. “And he isn’t. It’s just- … you know, what? I’m not explaining myself to you. We’ve been over this, and we both know where we stand so just-”

“Just what? Butt out?” She asks, her voice hardening with rage. “I can’t do that, Bill. Whether you want to admit it or not, the choices you are making right now are going to affect our son. I have to make sure he isn’t even further traumatized than he already is by everything that’s happened. It’s up to me since you obviously refuse to change your ways and-”

“Traumatized?” Bill interrupts, “Now wait a second-”

“Yes, Bill. How can you not see what this means? Think about the future, okay? Think about Brian’s future.” 

“I am. But I have to think about my future too.”

“Oh my God, please.” She says, laughing mirthlessly. “This is a phase, Bill. Or some kind of insane midlife crisis. Whatever it is, I’m begging you to work it out. If not for your sake or mine, then for our son’s.” 

Silence settles across the line, and he can hear himself breathing heavily into the receiver. There’s a low hum in his ears, the sound of something about to break. Maybe his pride or his composure. He doesn’t know how to tell her that this isn’t a phase. He’d tried telling himself that much enough times over the course of the past several months. He’d tried selling himself that lie that first night he and Holden had spent together. As much as it terrifies him, he knows deep in his chest that it simply isn’t the truth. 

Finally, Nancy gives a quiet, choked laugh. “You’re not going to do that, are you?” 

“I’m sorry.” He says, “I can’t.”

“Well, I hope it’s worth it. I hope  _ he’s  _ worth it.” 

The line clicks, and the dial tone hums in his ear. Anger, frustration, and fear bubble up in his chest like a shaken bottle of soda about to explode. All at once, he wants to break something under his fist, fall down crying, or escape the apartment and run far from his problems - but none of those urges are a viable choice. None of them can fix the mess he’s made of his life. 

Bill sets the receiver down slowly, realizing his hand is trembling. When he looks up, he sees Holden peeking around the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes wide with concern. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, quietly. 

Bill swallows hard. He opens his mouth to lie and say yes, but nothing comes out. 

Holden breaks away from the doorway, and wanders across the kitchen. He reaches out a tentative hand to carefully touch Bill’s knuckles. 

Lowering his head, Bill presses his eyes shut against the faint burn of emotion. He shoves it down hard, focusing on Holden’s fingers nudging between his own. The connection between them is alive and humming, longing traversing between nerve-endings, Holden offering comfort if Bill would only reach out and take it. 

Bill grasps Holden by the waist suddenly, dragging him up against the kitchen counter. Holden’s quiet gasp is smothered by the hard press of Bill’s mouth coming down with quivering, raw frustration, and he quickly opens his mouth to the brutal stroke of teeth and tongue. 

Clutching Holden’s hips, Bill lifts him up onto the counter, and nudges between his knees. He reaches up to cradle Holden’s cheeks, dragging his mouth down into the hungry, biting caress. Holden moans softly, wrapping his legs around Bill’s waist to pull their bodies together. His arms wind around Bill’s neck, eagerly returning the force of the kiss. 

Bill kisses him a few moments longer before the breathless weight in his chest forces him to pull back. He rests his forehead against Holden’s cheek, breathing hard against the iron grip of anger and sadness battling across his breastbone. 

Holden’s fingertips stroke his cheek. He doesn’t say anything to try to mitigate the mounting conflict. 

Bill pulls away, leaving Holden’s legs dangling over the edge of the counter. 

“I need some air.” He whispers, his voice low and hoarse. 

He turns and marches across the kitchen to the sliding glass door that leads out onto the fire escape. He slips outside, clenching his teeth against the harsh breath of cold, December air. The chill immediately saps the heat from his cheeks and chest, leaving only the breathless clench in his lungs. The wind strips his eyes of moisture, smothering the verging possibility of tears that he refuses to let fall. 

A few minutes later, the door slides open again behind him. He glances over his shoulder to see Holden stepping out onto the balcony with the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he’d left on the coffee table. 

“Thanks.” Bill mutters, taking the pack from Holden. He slides one free with his teeth, and tucks the rest in his pocket. 

Holden’s gaze is quiet yet meticulous as he flicks open the lighter, and extends it to the cigarette dangling from Bill’s mouth. 

Bill leans forward, cupping his hand over the flame to shield it from the wind. Holden’s hand joins it, fingertips brushing his knuckles. 

“What was it this time?” Holden asks, softly, pushing the lighter shut. 

“I didn’t call her back on Friday.” Bill says, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I should have. I’m pushing my luck by not trying harder to appease her.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Brian.” Bill says, “Once we’re through the real estate it’s on to custody.”

Holden nods, slowly. “Oh.” 

“She thinks I’m going to traumatize him.” Bill says, scoffing a pained laugh.

“What?” 

“Please, don’t act like you’re shocked.” Bill says, “Most of the world would agree with her.” 

“She’s not going to take Brian away from you.” 

“How do you know? She could do whatever she wants at this point.”

“Nancy isn’t a mean person.” Holden says, “She sees the good in people. She didn’t want to admit Brian was involved even after he confessed to the police.”

“You know my wife better than I do?” Bill asks, giving a coarse chuckle. 

Holden’s eyes are somber as Bill glances over at him.  _ My wife.  _ The phrase stands there between them, already a relic of the past. 

“I’m just saying, she’s not cruel.” Holden says, “She probably doesn’t even have the guts to do it. If she goes before the judge and tells him about us, then what? She has to endure the embarrassment the same as us. She won’t do it.”

“I don’t know.” Bill says, focusing his gaze on the distant outline of pine trees on the horizon. “I disgust her.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re disgusted, too.” 

Bill lifts his head to see Holden’s gaze turned out towards the square block below them, his cheeks pink and windswept, mouth pursing though not from the cold. 

Bill takes a drag of his cigarette, letting the nicotine soothe his veins. What he wants to say is that he feels horrible for dragging Holden along through the mud with him, that he would have ended this months ago if it meant saving Holden some pain. But neither of them want that. They need each other, maybe Bill more than Holden; but he can’t say that either. He’s been selfish enough as it is. 

Bill sighs, and tosses his cigarette over the edge of the balcony. Looping an arm around Holden’s neck, he draws him closer to his chest where their body heat isn’t yet entirely chilled by the December air. 

He presses a kiss to Holden’s temple, and whispers. “I’m not.”

Holden’s eyelids slip shut, a look of relief crossing the relaxing set of his lips. 

“Come on.” Bill mutters, rubbing his palm down Holden’s goosebump prickled arm. “It’s fucking cold.”

They slip back inside where the furnace is rumbling to life, chasing away the breath of cold air. 

“So, what do you want to do?” Holden asks, managing a casual tone. “We can see what’s on TV, or go downtown…”

“Hey,” Bill says, catching Holden by the wrist, and pulling him around. “Come here. I missed you.”

Holden leans into Bill’s chest, his eyes softening and his mouth curling eagerly. “Yeah? How much?” 

Bill cradles Holden’s cheek, still slightly cold from the outdoors, and gently guides their mouths together again. He kisses Holden slowly and thoroughly as he backs them towards the couch. Holden’s legs find the couch cushions, and he tumbles backwards with a whimper that’s smothered in Bill’s deepening kiss. The collapse to the cushions, Holden’s legs opening eagerly to allow Bill to crawl between them. 

Bill breaks the kiss just long enough to catch a glimpse of Holden’s eyes glistening with need and his mouth drifting open, pink and plush. 

“This much.” He whispers. 

His mouth descends again, and Holden responds with opening lips and curling tongue. His legs curl around Bill’s waist, dragging him close. They touch each other until the cold is gone, and the lingering frustration and anger is nothing more than a distant memory. 


	22. fevered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: ooh! i was just thinking of a fic where holden has been running a fever all day and keeps trying to work through it even though it's obvious he's miserable. cue protective bill dragging his ass home and putting him to bed. later on, when holden wakes up, bill is wrapped around him, and holden feels real warmth and bliss for the first time in his life. i figured you'd be the perfect to ask bc all of your writing is utterly beautiful!

It starts as a headache and a nagging fatigue that doesn’t improve even after Holden sleeps for twelve hours each night over the weekend. By Sunday night, his throat is hurting, and an annoying cough tickling the back of his throat keeps making it worse. On Monday morning, he swallows down some Ibuprofen and shoves a handful of cough drops in his pocket. 

_ It’s just a cold.  _ He thinks, ignoring the exhaustion tugging at his limbs as he drives into work.  _ I can work through a cold.  _

Arriving in the BSU basement, he drops down at his desk with a heavy sigh, and rubs both hands over his face before turning to his messages. Bill comes out of his office a few minutes later to grab a cup of coffee, and Holden acknowledges him with a forced smile. 

“‘Morning. Is Gregg here yet?” He asks, nodding at the empty desk across from him. 

“Nope. Called in sick.” Bill says. 

“Oh. It must be pretty serious, then.” 

“The flu, I think.” Bill says, pouring himself a cup of coffee. 

He pours in no less than five sugars before approaching Holden’s desk again. Holden can feel his gaze bearing down on the back of his neck, silently assessing him. 

“You good?” Bill asks. 

Holden glances up from the case file in front of him - the police report he’s been staring blankly at for the last few minutes - and musters a cavalier reply. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” 

“You just sound a little hoarse, that’s all.” Bill says, “I hope you don’t have what Gregg does.” 

“No, I’m fine.” 

“Okay.” Bill says. His eyes are wrinkled with lingering concern, but he lets the conversation go. 

Holden sighs as Bill retreats back into his office. Despite the cup of coffee he’d had this morning, he still feels unbearably tired and a dull headache is beginning to grip his temples. He grits his teeth, and glares over at Gregg’s vacant desk, silently wishing he would have called in sick too before quickly squashing the thought. 

His parents had always been strict about illness and school attendance. If he didn’t have a fever or was throwing up, he was in school. And if he complained or tried to make out his condition to be worse than it was to avoid going, his father would bark at him to “suck it up.” The frame of thinking is too ingrained to call in sick for a headache and a little bit of a cough. 

Holden turns his attention back to the case file in front of him that he’s supposed to be formulating a remote consult for. He has to wrangle his mind to focus on the details a few times before he can start retaining the information and arranging it into a suitable analysis. 

For the next few hours, Holden toils over the single case file. His thoughts are sluggish and disjointed, the details of the murders swimming in the fuzzy haze inside his brain. The headache that had started out in his temples encompasses his skull, and the pain is radiating down his back, working into the joints as if his ligaments are being slowly ripped apart. He doesn’t realize that he’s shaking until his jaw begins to ache from clenching his teeth so hard. 

He pops a few more Ibuprofen, and takes off his jacket. The basement is usually on the colder side, but he’s sweating underneath the taut collar of his shirt. 

Around eleven, Wendy comes out of her office, and asks everyone to meet in the conference room so that they can work on the analysis for the study. They finished up the interviews a few months ago, and all that’s left is synthesis and publication. The analysis is currently in outline form with bullet points in three-ring binders that they each have a copy of. Holden pulls his binder out of his desk, and gathers himself with a deep breath before heading for the conference room. 

Bill sits down next to him, and lights a cigarette. The smoke curls from the burning tip, fumigating the air with the sharp odor of nicotine. Holden closes his eyes as his throat tickles and his lungs constrict. Unable to suppress the reaction, he coughs into his elbow. 

“Are you okay, Holden?” Wendy asks. 

“Yeah, fine.” He whispers. 

He catches Bill’s sideways glance as Wendy clears his throat and launches into a summary of what they’ll be discussing today. His brow is furrowed with a concerned frown, and his eyes keep wandering from Wendy. 

Holden rubs his fingertips across his forehead, trying in vain to massage away the dizzy haze and the dull ache. Wendy’s voice fades out of focus, melding into the high-pitched buzz gaining volume in his ears. His whole body feels like it’s balanced on white-hot pins and needles, alternating between flashes of hot and cold. And then, as if he couldn’t feel any worse, a wave of nausea hits him in the pit of his stomach. 

_ Do not throw up. Do not throw up.  _ But the desperate mantra only seems to encourage the nausea churning in his belly. 

Holden opens his eyes to see his fingers wrapped white-knuckled around the arm of the chair, visibly shaking. He leaps to his feet. 

“Excuse me. I need to go to the bathroom.”

Wendy pauses from her spiel. Everyone glances up at him, confused and concerned. 

Holden bolts out of the conference room, and staggers across the bullpen. He shoves past the door and into the hallway where the temperature is only slightly cooler. His stomach clenches, threatening to deposit his breakfast on the grimy tile, but he swallows it down forcefully. Making his way down the hallway to the bathroom, he slips inside where the harsh, paneled lights overhead cast his sallow pallor in white. 

Holden leans over the sink, and cranks the faucet on cold. Cupping his hands under the faucet, he splashes his face with cold water. The shock of the cold water seems to cut past the nausea, so he stays bent over the sink, rubbing it across his burning cheeks until the urge to vomit abates. 

Behind him, the door squeaks open, and thuds shut again. 

Holden slowly lifts his head from the sink, and peeks up at the mirror. 

Bill is standing behind him, his brow creased with a frown, his mouth set into a narrow line. 

“This doesn't look like ‘fine’.” He says when Holden turns off the water. 

Straightening from the sink, Holden grabs a handful of paper towel with trembling fingers, and presses them to his face. When he dries his face and balls the towels in his fist, he opens his eyes to Bill’s stern gaze. 

“It was just a cough this morning.” Holden says finally, his voice a meek, raspy whisper. 

“Well, it’s more than a cough now.”

“I know.” 

“You look like shit. Are you going to puke?”

“No.” Holden says, tossing the napkins in the trash can. He turns to brace his hands against the sink, and lowers his head.

“I think it’s time for you to go home.” Bill says. 

“But Gregg already called off, and-”

“Come here.” Bill says, his hand already closing around Holden’s elbow. 

Holden’s eyes spring open as Bill pulls him gently around to face him. He opens his mouth to argue, but Bill cradles his nape, and presses the back of his other hand to Holden’s forehead. 

“Jesus, you’re burning up.” Bill says, his eyes flashing with concern. 

Holden closes his eyes as Bill’s knuckles shift down his temple and against his cheek. The caress is cool and gentle, soothing the waves of heat rolling up and down his body. For a moment, he forgets how badly every inch of him is aching. 

“Come on, I’m taking you home.” Bill says. 

“What? No, I can drive myself-”

“You’re in no condition to drive.” Bill says, “What if you get sick on the way home?”

“No, Gregg is already out, and without me and you that would just leave Wendy and the interns and-”

“Holden.” Bill says, firmly.

Holden glances up tentatively to meet Bill’s somber gaze. “What?”

“Shut up, and do what I say.”

“Okay.” Holden whispers. 

“Come on, let’s go.” Bill says, his voice softer this time. 

They walk slowly back down the hallway to the BSU offices. Bill ducks back into the conference room to let Wendy know what’s going on while Holden gathers his things from his desk. While he’s relieved that Bill is taking the decision out of his hands, there’s still some part of him that feels guilty for not being stronger. If he’d felt just a margin better, he might have been able to argue about working through it, but he’s feeling on the verge of a collapse. 

“Come on.” Bill says, nodding for Holden to follow him as he strides across the bullpen. 

Holden follows him out to the car, and they quietly climb inside. Holden sinks down against the seat as Bill steers them out of the parking lot and down the road. 

“When’s the last time you took a sick day?” Holden asks, peeking up at Bill’s stoic profile focused on the road ahead. 

“I don’t know.” Bill says. 

Holden frowns.  _ Does he get sick? Ever?  _ He doesn’t want to sound silly by asking, and even sillier by comparing their tallies. _It’s not a competition_, he can hear his mother saying. Not everything is a goddamn competition. He just wishes he could be an unmovable rock the way Bill is. 

Once they reach Holden’s apartment building, Bill walks them to the elevator with a hand curled tightly around Holden’s elbow. It stays there until Holden lets them into the apartment, and Bill steers them directly to his bedroom. 

“Put your P.J’s back on, and get in bed.” Bill says, “What medicine have you taken today?”

“At least four Ibuprofen.” 

“Okay, so none of that for a few hours.” Bill says, “You need to get hydrated since you have a fever.”

“Bill, it’s okay. Thank you for taking me home, but I can take care of myself from here. I’ll be fine once I rest and-”

“What did I say?” Bill interrupts. His tone and gaze are stubborn, brooking no argument. 

Holden shuts his mouth. He changes into his pajamas while Bill retrieves a glass of water from the kitchen. When he comes back into the bedroom, Holden is snuggled down under the sheets. The suffocating heat has turned to chilled shivers. 

Bill sits down on the edge of the bed while Holden gulps down the glass of water. 

“You’re shivering.” He says, his tone dropping to a concerned whisper that Holden has never heard before. 

Holden sets the glass on the nightstand, and wipes his mouth. “I’m really cold.”

Bill reaches out to feel Holden’s forehead again. His palm is warm and big, covering Holden’s forehead and temple. 

“It should start breaking soon.” Bill says, “Here, lay down.” 

His palm guides Holden’s head down against the pillows, but it lingers, thumb running through the sweaty curls at Holden’s temple. 

Holden resists a moment before closing his eyes, and allowing the sensation to soothe the pain gripping his temples and joints. Bill fingers sift through his hair and down against his neck, between his shoulder blades, rubbing gently. 

The shivers gripping Holden’s insides linger, but he’s so exhausted that he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. He falls into a fitful sleep where it’s dark and silent, yet his mind is still fighting against the severity of the illness. 

He wakes up some time later to utter darkness. Hours must have passed, but he can’t remember them. He isn’t shaking anymore. He’s curled up in the fetal position with the covers tucked under his chin, and his body is warm and relaxed. Warm breath tickles his nape, alerting him to the weight clinging to his back. 

Holden comes fully awake as realization washes over him. Bill’s body is cradling him, keeping him close with an arm wrapped securely around his chest. Under the sheets, their legs are entangled. He can smell Bill’s aftershave. 

A cold slice of panic cuts through him, and on impulse, he thinks of extracting himself from Bill’s embrace and fleeing the bed. Maybe it’s the lingering haze in his brain, or the threat of reviving his headache by moving that keeps him still. Maybe it’s something else, something deeper, something buried low in his chest where he shoves all the tiny, flinching things that long for everything he thinks he hasn’t earned. He’s too sick to tell, but he relaxes down into Bill’s arms before he can reconsider. 

In the silence, a distant siren wails out into the night. Holden counts the seconds while he lays still, absorbing the weight and warmth of Bill’s body. It seems like an infinitely long time before the ambulance comes and goes, its scream fading away until it’s all quiet again, and there’s just the rhythm of their breaths matching up. For a while, the rasps of their breaths is all he can hear. He keeps thinking he should move, or at least try to put a little bit of space between them. Each time the thought arises, he tells himself he’ll enjoy five minutes more. Then five minutes - or what he thinks might be five minutes according to the swollen, syrupy seconds of nighttime - passes, over and over again. Finally, he feels himself drifting off again, too content to follow through. Right before he hits dreamland, he thinks he’s never felt this warm, but he’s already asleep before his logic can tell him that it’s only the fading cusp of a fever. 


	23. monsoon season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: A case detective takes a dislike to Bill. Bill deals with it--not the first time this has happened--but when the guy starts getting on his age his self-esteem takes a hit. He *is* getting older and doesn't have the same energy he once did, but it also makes him think more about his and Holden's age difference. But Holden realizes what's going on and gives the detective a tongue-lashing. Basically an Insecure!Bill and a Protective!Holden.

As if the week couldn’t get any worse, it’s fucking monsoon season in Albany, Oregon. Bill’s lungs are burning as he backtracks through the flooded, narrow streets, carefully avoiding the potholes creating tiny ponds in the pitted asphalt. Through the sheets of rain cascading from the angry, gray stormclouds, he glimpses their rented, tan sedan turning down the street. 

Bill stops walking, and bends down to brace his hands on his knees. He’s yet to catch his breath aftering chasing the unsub across four blocks before the younger man turned a corner, jumped a fence, and disappeared out of sight. Now he’s soaked to the bone, cold, lungs aching, and the arrest is a bust. The fact that they know where he lives is the only silver lining in this miserable day. 

Holden pulls the car up alongside him, and Bill ducks inside. Rain water drips off his coat and pools on the leather seat as he yanks the door shut behind him with a grunt. 

“You okay?” Holden asks. 

“No.” Bill says, “Let’s get back.” 

Holden’s mouth is pursed in a thin line as he steers them back in the direction of the suspect’s house. As they approach, the lights from no less than five police cars smudge red and blue across the slick windshield. Crime scene tape is stretched in damp ribbons around the perimeter while detectives in trench coats shelter themselves on the front porch and crime scene techs carry their equipment inside with tarps dragged overtop. 

Detective Messing is among those on the porch. 

Holden sighs, putting the car into park. “You know he’s going to have something to say about this.”

“I know.” Bill says, sharply. “Let’s just fucking get this over with.”

They climb out of the car, and flash their badges at the perimeter. Making their way across the muddy, unkempt lawn, they reach the porch just as Messing concluding a conversation with one of the CSU officers. 

The detective is a tall, fit man in his late thirties with dark hair combed back in neat waves against his nape. He radiates an air of self-assurity that had pissed Bill off the moment they met. 

They were called in on this case because a string of rapes that Messing had been lead detective on turned to homicide. The case, which in Bill’s estimation should have been solved over a year ago, is now stretching past its third year, tallying up eleven victims - three of them dead. He and Holden had only been on the case a week before they matched the profile to a previous suspect who had already been interviewed, but released on an alibi provided by his mother who he lives with. 

Bill doesn’t consider family a solid alibi, and he’d told Messing as much as soon as they came across the file on their suspect, Howard Jennings. Right away, he got the sense that Messing is used to getting things his way. The friction between them had only built since that first confrontation which had ended in Messing storming out of the conference room. Bill tries not to let internal politics or bad attitudes get to him when he’s on the job, but there’s something smug and infuriating about the way Messing treats almost everyone around him that gets under his skin. 

“So, he got away.” Messing says, his tone already indicating a fresh meltdown. 

“He’ll turn back up.” Holden says. 

“Yeah?” Messing says, his eyebrows rising. “And what if he doesn’t?”

“He will.” Holden assures, climbing the porch steps to get level with Messing. “He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“We know where he lives.” Bill adds, stepping up beside Holden. “We already know his alibi is shit, and now that there’s police and CSU crawling through her house, his mother is bound to tell the truth.”

“So fucking what?” Messing says, sharply. “There’s nothing here, Bill. He doesn’t rape or kill them here. There’s not going to be any physical evidence that he’s our guy. Maybe you can close this up and call it done, but I’m the one who has to stick around once the charges are filed and try to prove to the jury that he’s our man.”

“We’re not just going to leave you holding the bag.” Bill says, disbelief sparking hot in his already simmering blood. “That’s not how we operate.”

Messing scoffs. “I should have run after him myself. You know what they say - if you want something done right, do it yourself.”

Bill draws in a deep breath, telling himself to cool it. They’re standing here on the front porch of the suspect’s house surrounded by uniformed officers and crime scene techs. The last thing he wants to do is lose the respect of everyone else in the department. 

“Look, we know how he thinks.” Bill says, managing an even tone. “And we can get him to come out of the woodwork. It might take a few days, but-”

“A few days? He could hurt someone else by then.” Messing interrupts, “You guys are unbelievable, you know that? We’re here to do real police work, not sit behind a desk and spout a bunch of psychological mumbo-jumbo. This bastard requires on-the-ground, physical legwork. If you can’t fucking keep up, then you should have stayed back the precinct.” 

“Man, what is your fucking problem?” Bill says, the words leaping from his throat before he can take them back. 

Messing stares him down, his face flushed with anger. 

“Okay, everyone take a deep breath-” Holden says, using his hostage negotiator voice that really just makes Bill even angrier. 

“Stay out of this.” Messing says, “I don’t have a problem with you, Ford. You’ve got your head in the game. I’m not so sure about your partner here-”

“You think I can’t keep up?” Bill interrupts, taking a threatening step closer to Messing. “Great. Let’s go. Let’s take this out back right now so everyone on this task force can watch an old man put you on the ground-”

“Bill.” Holden says, disbelief ballooning in his tone. He puts a hand on Bill’s chest, and pushes himself in between them. 

Messing’s jaw is quivering with rage, like he’s about to swing, and Bill almost wants him to do it just so he can make good on his threat. 

“You talk big game.” Messing says, “But where’s my suspect? Huh?” 

“I think we all need to calm down and think about this rationally.” Holden says. 

Both Bill and Messing begin protest, but Holden’s voice rises firmly above them both, “No. Let’s think about this, Detective. Be honest with ourselves.” 

Messing glares, his brows furrowing. “What the fuck does that mean?” 

“It means that we shouldn’t even be here.” Holden says, his tone steady yet cutting. “You’ve had Jennings within reach for months. You interviewed him, then you let him go. Bill and I are here because what should have ended with rape turned into one murder - then two, then three. We’re here because your chief of police took this case away from you, and handed it to us - because you couldn’t make the cut. Maybe you can run a little faster than both of us, but you certainly aren’t smarter than us when it comes to understanding how these men think and act. If you want us to leave now, that’s fine. Maybe you’ll get Jennings to resurface, and maybe you won’t; but we won’t be around to help you when your boss comes back looking for answers.” 

The sound of the heavy downpour fills in the silence. Messing looks like he might explode. Bill lowers his head, fighting back a smile as Holden matches Messing’s glare, unwilling to back down. 

Finally, Messing turns and walks off the porch without comment. 

“Come on, Bill.” Holden says, nodding towards the house. “I want to get a look at this bastard’s bedroom, and see if we can do any real groundwork to flush him out.” 

~

The next day, Bill’s body hurts. As soon as he wakes up in the hotel bed, he realizes that he’d pulled a few muscles in the chase after Jennings. He rolls back against the pillows with a groan, and closes his eyes against the hot pain that races down his back and into his leg. 

_ Maybe Messing wasn’t far off from the truth.  _

Bill grabs his cigarettes from the nightstand, and inhales nicotine against the force of that self-pitying thought. He doesn’t like to spare any effort towards feeling sorry for himself, but it’s an idea that had cropped up in his mind long before Detective Messing and his arrogant vitriol came along. He smokes and drinks too much, and he doesn’t eat very well either. Most of their work is from behind a desk, and if he does expend himself the way he did yesterday, he pays the price the next day. More recently, there’s been times when Holden was up for round two, and he simply couldn’t muster the energy. Maybe he is getting too fucking old for all of this. 

Bill opens his eyes, jarring himself out of the deepening pit of misery when a knock comes on his door. 

He climbs out of bed, hissing at the pain shooting down his lower back. Throwing on a pair of trousers, he goes to the door, and pulls it open.

Holden is standing on the other side, already dressed for the day in a slate gray suit and navy blue knit tie. His hair is combed, jaw clean-shaven, eyes bright and alert, focused on the tasks ahead of them. 

Bill tries to muster a smile. “‘Morning.”

“Good morning. Can I come in?”

“Sure.” 

Bill stands aside as Holden strides into the room, going straight to the coffee maker in the corner to start adding water and grounds. 

“Have you showered yet?”

“No.” Bill says, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. 

“Well, you better hurry up.” Holden says, dumping coffee grounds into the filter and flicking the lid shut. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us.” 

Bill rubs a hand over his stubbled chin, thinking he probably looks afright. Worse than that, pathetic.  _ Pull it together.  _ But the thought makes barely a dent in his flinching subconscious. 

Holden jabs the button to brew, and turns around to pin Bill with an expectant gaze. “Well, are you gonna go get dressed?”

“Yeah.” Bill says, drawing in a deep breath. 

He wanders to the closet, and retrieves a clean pair of clothes. He can feel Holden watching him as he chooses a powder blue shirt, and sifts through his tie choices. 

“Is something the matter?” Holden asks. 

“Nope.” 

Holden crosses his arms, and draws in a deep breath. Gearing up like he’s about to pull a tooth. 

Bill closes his eyes, and clenches his jaw. “Don’t.”

“Bill, come on.” Holden says, “Don’t tell me Messing got to you. That guy is a prick.”

“Yeah, he is.” Bill says, cutting Holden a glare. “And to an extent, he’s not wrong.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“There was no way I was ever going to catch up to Jennings.” Bill says, “Physically. Thought was I going to have a fucking coronary right there on the goddamn street.”

Holden sighs, and shakes his head. “That’s not what we’re here for, Bill - chasing down suspects. We went into that interview unprepared. We had no idea he was going to run. We should have had uniformed officers there with us. Running after suspects is their job.”

“Just stop trying to make me feel better. It’s over, done with.” Bill says, yanking a pair of clean trousers off the hanger. 

He turns to head for the bathroom, but Holden stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“This is not just about Messing, is it?” He asks, softly. 

Bill glances away, feeling his face burning. He should have kept his mouth shut, but Holden has a way of getting him talking - and once he starts, he can’t really stop. 

“Bill, talk to me.” Holden whispers, taking the clothes out of Bill’s hands, and setting them aside in exchange for his own hands. 

Bill clutches Holden’s fingers, focusing on the neat, clean lines of his nails. His hands are soft and youthful, meant for devout, virile passion. For someone as young and fiery as him. 

“Where is this leading?” He asks, slowly lifting his gaze back to Holden’s. 

Holden’s brow creases with a little, confused frown. “What do you mean?” 

“This.” Bill says, “You and me.” 

Holden presses closer, whispering, “Wherever we want it to.” 

“I’m serious.” Bill says, “It’s the best sex I’ve had in years, but what about you?” 

“What? You think you’re not satisfying me?” Holden asks, scoffing quietly. “When have I ever complained?”

“You haven’t. Yet.” 

“Yet?” 

“Well, in five years you could be buying me little blue pills to get your rocks off.” Bill says, mustering a casual tone even as the words sting underneath. 

Holden stares at him blankly for a moment before his confused expression breaks into a smile. He laughs, shaking his head. “Bill, you are  _ not  _ that old. I think you need to give yourself a little more credit.” 

“Don’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind.”   
Holden shrugs. “It hasn’t.”

“Really?” 

“Yes, really.” 

Bill wraps his arms around Holden’s waist, and meets Holden’s calm, reserved gaze with a choked chuckle. “Well … all right.”

“Even if I did have to buy you little blue pills, it wouldn’t matter.” Holden says, spreading his hands over Bill’s chest. “I’m not with you just because you’re good in bed.” 

Bill lowers his head, biting back a smile, but Holden tucks his fingers under his chin to lift his gaze back up. He presses a soft kiss to Bill’s mouth, and sighs quietly into the tiny space between them. 

“And you are.” He murmurs. “Really good in bed.” 

Bill clears his throat. “I’m glad you think so.” 

“I know so. Now go get a shower.” Holden says, nudging the heels of his hands into Bill’s chest. “We have to go show that prick, Messing, who’s boss.” 

Bill chuckles, taking a shuffling step backwards. Holden has already crossed the room to pour himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee, the conversation miles behind his high velocity initiative for the day ahead. 

Bill lags behind, still caught up in the revelation.  _ I’m not with you just because you’re good in bed  _ sounds a lot like something else, something more serious. He can’t push it right now, but he tucks it in the back of his mind overtop his insecurities. It rests there like a blanket, smothering everything else in warmth - and maybe something more. 


	24. confetti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from purplebeetle: Bill and Holden are together for quite some time and keep it secret. One day Bill gets an invitation to a wedding with his +1, but he can't bring Holden so he throws it out. Holden finds it and tries to convince Bill to go alone, but Bill is adamant. Later he confesses to Wendy he wishes he could marry Holden. She describes marriage as a financial contract, BUT is secretly a romantic, so she tells him that even if marriage is impossible, he can propose and make his vows.

The invitation comes on crisp, eggshell white stationary with watercolor lilacs and gold calligraphy lettering. It’s addressed to Bill, but at the bottom in the delicate, cursive lettering, it suggests he bring a plus one when RSVPing to help the two celebrate a day of “love that’s meant to be.” 

He finds it between his water bill and a piece of junk mail, and almost immediately throws it in the garbage. It’s not that he doesn’t want to attend his old pal’s wedding. He knew the guy way back in the day when the BSU was first founded. Though they haven’t kept up over the years, Bill knows what kind of person he is - and who else will be at the wedding. A whole lot of FBI good ol’ boys, relics of the Hoover system, the principled type who would have undoubtedly thrown a fit if they knew Holden took “fellatio” and “cunnilingus” off the list of deviant terminology. Guys who would take one look at Bill bringing Holden as his plus one, and draw all kinds of conclusions - every single one of them correct. 

The invitation sails into the garbage can on top of a paper plate spattered with day old ketchup. 

Later that evening, Holden comes over with carry-out from the burger joint down the road, and a case of beer. Once they’ve gorged themselves on burgers and fries and shared two beers, Holden is snuggled up in his arms, half falling asleep while the television plays The Godfather. 

_ The wedding theme is following him _ , Bill thinks. Maybe it’s the universe trying to tell him something. 

He glances down at Holden’s flushed cheek nestled against his chest, his dark eyelashes shielding Bill from a glimpse of his pretty blue eyes. His hair is a tousled mess from Bill running his fingers through it, and the puckered swell of his lower lip has the same affect on him that always does: a deep, magnetic urge to kiss Holden senseless. 

Bill glances back at the television screen, trying to focus his attention back on the film. He’s been through love and marriage, buying a house together, having a kid, all the normal things that are expected - or rather readily accessible - to a heterosexual couple. It’s confetti, icing on a cake when the batter would have been satisfying enough. He doesn’t need all that. What they have between them, secretly is good enough even if Bill can never take Holden as his plus one to a wedding, or walk down the aisle towards him in their own celebration of love meant to be. 

He’s usually pretty good at giving himself a pep talk and moving on. This time, it doesn’t stick. He can’t bury his feelings, but he should have at least burned the invitation. 

A few days later, they’re getting ready for work in the morning. Bill is standing over the kitchen counter drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper while Holden uses the blender to mix a smoothie. As the whir of the blender dies down, Holden turns to Bill with a curious gaze. 

“Is everything okay with you?” 

“What?” Bill asks, looking up from the paper. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’ve been quiet the past few days.” 

“I have?” 

“Yes.” Holden says, pouring out his smoothie into a glass. He takes a sip, leaving a milky line on his upper. 

“You’ve got some …” Bill mutters, leaning over to kiss the smoothie off Holden’s mouth. 

Holden leans into him, sighing into the kiss. He chuckles as he pulls his mouth away. “Hey, don’t change the subject.” 

“I’m not.” 

“You are.” Holden objects, freeing himself from Bill’s embrace.

“Holden, I’m fine. Really. I’m just tired.”

Holden stares him down for a moment before spinning around, and marching over to the side table where Bill keeps his bills in order. He pulls a slip of paper from the bottom of the stack, and holds it up. 

“It doesn’t have anything to do with this?” 

Bill recognizes the ketchup-stained wedding invitation almost immediately. He sputters in disbelief for a moment before scraping together a defensive report. “First of all, you’re going through my trash?” 

“It was sitting right on top.” Holden says, “Isn’t Jim a really old friend of yours?”

“Yes.” Bill says, tersely. 

“Then why are you throwing out his wedding invitation?”

Bill presses his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, trying to quell his frustration. “Because.” 

“Because why?” Holden presses, “Because it says plus one on here?”

Bill opens his eyes, casting Holden a narrowed gaze. Holden stares back at him with an expectant look, waiting for an explanation. 

“Look, I’m probably not going to be able to attend anyway.” Bill says, “We’re out of town half of the time, and the other half we’re way too busy to be-”

“It’s on a Saturday.” 

“I know, but it’s all the way in Newark and-”

“You could make time.” 

Bill turns back to his newspaper, swallowing down a hot drink of coffee. It burns the back of his throat where an agitated knot is beginning to form. 

“I don’t know why you fucking care.” He says, “Jim is my friend, and if I don’t want to go then that’s my business.” 

Holden sighs, sounding a little wounded. “Fine. But I wouldn’t be upset if you went alone. I understand how it would look.” 

“It isn’t that.” Bill says, sharply. “I don’t care what those people think of me.”

“Yes, you do.” Holden says, softly. “Every time you touch me you’re breaking the law.” 

Bill looks up from the mass of little, black letters printed uniformly across the newspaper. His chest stings against the raw truth of what Holden is saying. The law is against them in every way, and they’re flirting with danger every time they so much as hold hands under the table in a restaurant. And to think, Bill had indulged himself in dreaming of Holden in a white chapel, his hair combed back and gleaming in the light, his chest sprouting with wedding day flowers. 

“I’m sorry.” Holden says, “That was …”

“No, you’re right.” Bill says, “Come here.”

Holden lays the invitation down, and shuffles across the kitchen to Bill’s outstretched arm. Bill curls his arm around Holden’s neck, drawing him close to his chest. 

Pressing a kiss to Holden’s temple, he whispers, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I would tell the world that if I could.”

Holden nods against his chest, his voice meek and muffled, “I know.” 

After a few silent moments, they slowly break away from one another to continue getting ready for work. Conversation is stifled as they kiss as the front door, and go their separate ways to their cars. 

Bill doesn’t see much of Holden for the rest of the day. They’re slammed with requests from police precincts, both of them up to their ears in piles of crime scene photos and profiles. 

Bill thinks that it might be best to create some distance. The exchange this morning felt like some kind of argument that they don’t know how to resolve, not a fundamental issue with one another but rather with their situation. It’s not a riddle to solve or a behavior to analyze. There’s no understanding the way he feels about Holden, no moral resolution he can slot them into to convince himself that it’s okay. It just is. The way the sky is blue and the grass is green, he wants Holden in every way possible, only he can’t have it. It seems like a design flaw in the universe. They shouldn’t be mad with each other, but who else is there to be angry with for giving them this beautiful thing that’s constantly under threat of extinction? 

At the end of the day, Holden pokes his head into Bill’s office. 

“I’m about to leave for the day.” He says, “You coming?”

“I’m going to finish this up.” Bill says, motioning to the profile in front of him. 

Holden's mouth purses in a line meant to hide his disappointment, but it shines clearly through his eyes. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.” Holden says, his gaze dropping towards the floor. “Bye.” 

He turns to leave, and almost runs into Wendy who is on her way into Bill’s office. They exchange muttered goodbyes before Wendy slips past him into the office. 

“I was just bringing you the application list.” She says, setting the folder on his desk. “You can look at it tomorrow.” 

“Thanks.” Bill mutters, barely looking up from his notebook where his notes are scattered in nearly illegible chicken scratch. 

Wendy pauses across the desk from him, her hands clasped in front of her. 

“Was there something else?” He asks, taking his reading glasses off to meet her gaze. 

“Is Holden okay?” She asks, her gaze reserved yet calculated. 

“As far as I know.” 

“He looked upset just now.” 

Bill leans back in his chair, and lets out a sigh. He hesitates to tell Wendy their personal business, but she’s about the only person he trusts to unload on. 

“Yeah, we um … we had a … I don't know what you’d call it - disagreement - this morning.” 

“Ah.” Wendy says, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Bill glances away. He instinctively reaches for his cigarettes to soothe his nerves. 

Wendy closes the door of the office, and comes back to take the chair across from him. She crosses her legs, and folds her hands patiently in her lap. 

“An old buddy of mine is getting married.” Bill says, focusing on the tip of his cigarette catching flame. “I got the invitation the other day.”

“Okay.” Wendy says, slowly. 

“I threw it away.” Bill says, taking drag of his cigarette, and tilting his head back to exhale smoke towards the ceiling. “Holden found it in the trash.”

Wendy’s head tilts to one side as she quietly analyzes this information. 

Bill sighs, and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I thought I didn’t want to go because it said on the invitation that I should bring a plus one, and I know I can’t take Holden to that kind of thing. But, then he said something to me that …”

“What’s that?” Wendy asks, softly. 

Bill stares at the singed tip of his cigarette, feeling the lump returning. He clears his throat against it, and pushes on, “Every time I touch him, I’m breaking the law.”

Wendy is quiet for a moment, absorbing the remark. “Is that how you feel?” 

Bill glances up at her, a frown knitting his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Does it feel criminal?” She asks, “When you touch him.” 

“No.” Bill whispers, “It feels … right. And, I suppose I didn’t realize it until he said it that the reason I didn’t want to go is because I don’t want to watch someone else get a second chance at marrying the love of their life when I don’t.” 

“Your friend is remarrying?”

“Yeah.” Bill says, scoffing. “A third time, actually. I know for a fact he cheated on his ex-wife. So I guess it feels a little wrong that he gets to marry whoever the fuck he feels like, and I-”

He glances away, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Saying it aloud makes the truth of it burn worse, right down into his chest like acid. 

“It is unfair.” Wendy says, “Heterosexual men and women get to abuse the constitution of marriage with impunity while you and I are left with the only thing we have - our privacy, a thing we must protect with our lives. At times, it feels like a struggle just to survive, and that very few people will ever understand what we experience every day.” 

“So, what you’re saying is I shouldn’t isolate myself from Holden?” Bill asks, scoffing past the lump in his throat. “You’re probably right. I should apologize.”

“Yes, I’m saying that. But I’m saying something else, too.” Wendy says, smiling gently. “I’m saying that homosexuality has existed for centuries. It’s older than modern religion, and it’s much, much older than our government and their laws. Marriage, in the traditional sense, is a gathering and a celebration of two people who love each other very much. It isn’t defined by a courthouse or a piece of paper.” 

Bill meets Wendy’s gaze, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“I had a lot of gay friends in Boston.” Wendy says, “They had marriage ceremonies all the time. Proposals, rings, vows, all of it. Perhaps it wasn’t valid in the eyes of the law, but that isn’t what mattered. It wasn't a legal contract to them. It was a display of commitment and loyalty to someone they loved very much.” 

“Wow.” Bill says, “That’s incredible.” 

Wendy nods, and rises to her feet. “It’s not beyond your reach. Think about it.” 

“I will. Thanks.” 

She smiles, softly. “Have a good night, Bill.” 

“You too.” 

She slips out of the office, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Her words settle in slowly, past his frustrations at the injustices of the world. The clamor dies down, his emotions boiling down to one thing, one certainty - he loves Holden, and he wants to spend the rest of his life with him. Beyond that, the rest is melting away, inconsequential details, a few obstacles but none that he can’t hurdle. 

Bill jumps up from his chair, leaving his cigarette half-smoked in the ashtray. The jewelry shop will be closing soon. 


	25. fractured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For GenuineSnoof who wanted Holden hiding an injury from Bill post-Atlanta

They’re trudging down the muddy, rain-slick slope that leads to the river’s edge where the body had been dumped when Holden’s feet go out from under him. The storm the previous night had swamped the hillside, dislodging rocks, and creating a wet minefield of loose dirt and gravel. One misstep, and he’s tumbling forward, right hand outstretched to break the fall. The pain that shoots through his arm on impact hurts worse than the humiliation of wiping out in front of the other detectives and CSU techs processing the scene, but he swallows back the immediate rush of agonized tears as Bill and the detective rush to his side. 

“Are you okay?” Bill asks, one hand clutching Holden’s shoulder. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure?” Bill’s tone is worried. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Holden replies, hurriedly, clambering to his feet. 

The initial shock of the fall keeps his blood pumping with adrenaline for the half hour it takes them to look over the scene and take notes. Unfortunately, most of the rain from the previous night had washed a lot of evidence away, leaving them with the bare-bones details of ligature marks and strangulation bruises on the body. 

They drive back into the town, and Holden stops off at the hotel to change his clothes. As he strips out of his shirt, the slight arch of his wrist incites fresh, shooting pain all the way up his forearm and into his elbow, urging a wounded sound against the back of his throat. He shoves the pain down, takes some pain killer, and goes back to work. 

The rest of the investigation spans three days, and is too frenzied for Holden to spare a thought for the tender, aching pain in his arm. He figures he just sprained it, and if he takes enough anti-inflammatories and ices the area it will be fine by next week. Besides, he doesn’t want to slow down the investigation by having to visit the doctor for something a brace and pain killer could fix. He can live with it.

It isn’t until the following week when they’re called out to New Jersey on a new case that the pain he’s been waking up with every morning since the fall intensifies into a constant distraction. Yet, the turn-around between the two cases is so tight that he doesn’t consider getting his arm looked at before they head out of town again. Instead, he spends the trip cradling his arm against him, swallowing down Ibuprofen, and clenching his teeth against the throbbing pain. 

_ I can handle it. I can handle it.  _ The thought is growing tedious, but kids are dying, and it’s his job to quickly analyze and create a profile to narrow down the suspect list. People’s lives depend on him, and his own health can wait. 

They’re all gathered in the conference room discussing the details of the case when the discomfort he’s been dealing with the past week overflows. Bill makes some point about the killer’s signature, and Holden is too distracted with his throbbing arm to reply. Then, Bill reaches over and nudges his arm to get his attention. The slight contact sends fiery pain cutting like a knife up through Holden’s arm so fiercely that he can’t swallow back the grunt of pain. He clutches his arm against his belly, and presses his eyes shut as nauseated waves of hot and cold roll through. 

“Yeah.” He says, past clenched teeth. “I think you’re right.” 

He can feel everyone staring at him. Slowly, Holden opens his eyes to glimpse Bill gazing worriedly at him. He swallows down the acid taste of bile singeing the back of his throat, and arranges a calm expression on his face. 

After the conference, he slips away to take another few tablets of Ibuprofen. When he comes back to their desks, Bill looks up from his paperwork. 

“Hey, is everything okay with you? You look a little peaked.”

“I’m fine.” Holden says, “I’m feeling a little under the weather, but nothing some Ibuprofen can’t fix.” 

Bill’s gaze tracks Holden’s movements as he sits down at his desk, and tries not to make it obvious that he’s avoiding the use of his right hand. The task is difficult since so much of their work is on paper, requiring him to grasp a pencil, and make use of a typewriter. 

He suffers through the rest of the day before they return to the hotel. By this point, the constant pain has dulled to an overall burning sensation that’s easier to deal with than the sharp shooting pain he’d been experiencing earlier. 

As the elevator goes up, Holden feels his stomach sway. The tiniest jolt of the elevator in motion urges that knife-like pain back to the fore. He leans into the wall as a wave of dizziness hits him, and instinctively reaches for the railing with his dominant hand. The second his fingers wrap around the railing and his body weight leans into his arm, the pain is so intense that he nearly falls to the ground. 

“Holden!” Bill’s alarmed voice cuts past the roar of blood in his ears and the prickle of stars at the corner of his eyes. 

Holden stumbles into Bill’s chest as Bill catches him by the elbow. He tries immediately to pull away, but Bill’s other hand clutches his waist. 

“What’s the matter?” Bill asks, his tone brisk with worry. “Are you going to be sick?” 

Holden lowers his head, and squeezes his eyes shut as another wave of dizziness passes over him. As it eases, he realizes that he’s broken into a cold sweat, and he’s breathing in shuddering inhales. 

“I .. It’s my arm.” He whispers. 

“Your arm?” Bill echoes, confused. 

Holden nods, swallowing back a raspy moan. “Yeah, I …”

The elevator doors open at their floor, and a pair of middle-aged women shuffle into the elevator, casting them bewildered glances. 

“Come on.” Bill says, sliding his arm around Holden’s waist, “Let’s get back to your room.” 

Holden doesn’t have the will to argue as Bill practically drags him out of the elevator, muttering his apologies to the two women. They make their way to Holden’s room, and pause in the hallway while Holden fumbles in his pocket with his left hand for the key card.

Once he gets the door open, Bill carries him inside, and sets him down on the edge of the bed. 

“What happened?” Bill asks, gazing down at him with a stern yet concerned gaze. 

Holden swallows hard, fighting back the stinging in his eyes. “I think I just … I think I sprained my wrist when I fell last week.”

“You mean in Washington?”

Holden nods. “Yeah, it’s been hurting ever since, but not like today.

Bill sits down on the edge of the bed beside him. “How bad does it hurt?” 

“Pretty bad.”

“On a scale of one to ten?” 

Holden presses his eyes shut, inhaling a slow, steadying breath. “Bill, it’s not that bad. Really. I’m okay. I don’t want to slow down the investigation. I-”

“Take off your jacket.” Bill says, his tone brooking no argument. “Let me see.”

Holden silently refuses for a long moment, keeping his gaze focused on the floor. The last thing he had wanted was for Bill to glimpse this weakness, yet another failure following everything that had happened in Atlanta. Maybe it would be fine if he was injured in the line of duty, doing something heroic, but he’d simply been clumsy; and now he’s encumbering the current investigation with his pain. 

“Holden.” Bill says, firmly. “Show me right now, or I’m taking you to the hospital for a doctor to look at it.”

“Fine.” Holden says.   
He carefully shrugs out of his jacket, and lets it slide down his arms. Bill pulls it off his wrists, and tosses it onto the sheets behind them. 

Bill releases a slow, steadying exhale as he takes Holden’s limp arm in his hands. Holden turns his face away, hiding the grimace that crosses his face when Bill turns his hand over to unbutton the sleeve of his shirt. 

Bill rolls the sleeve up out of the way, letting cool air breathe across the inflamed skin. Holden peeks down through misty eyes to glimpse the flushed skin of his forearm slightly puffy and irritated. 

Bill’s fingertips slide down the inside of Holden’s forearm until they reach his wrist, and though the caress is gentle Holden’s entire body stiffens at the sharp pain that cuts down the length of his arm. He draws in a hissing gasp past his clenched teeth, using all of his willpower not to yank his arm out of Bill’s grasp. 

“That hurts?” Bill asks, his gaze reaching up anxiously to find Holden’s.

Holden’s vision is fuzzy as he opens his eyes, and raggedly whispers, “Yes.” 

“It feels swollen.” Bill says. “Is it just your wrist or up farther too?” 

“All of it.” Holden says, his voice dwindling to a pained rasp. 

Bill’s frown deepens as he clutches Holden’s hand, and slowly turns and rotates his wrist. 

“Fuck.” Holden cries, grabbing onto a handful of the sheets. Tears rush hotly to his eyes, unstoppable despite the clench of his jaw. 

Bill doesn’t say anything except for the quiet “hmm” in the back of his throat, coming to the conclusion that what Holden is dealing with might be more than a sprain. The thought pops up in the back of Holden’s own mind as Bill moves his arm at the elbow from side to side and up and down causing the pain to intensify. 

“Ow, that hurts.” He groans, pulling his arm out of Bill’s grasp. 

“I’m sorry.” Bill says, “I think this is worse than a sprain, Holden.”

“No.” Holden whispers, struggling to get the rapid pace of his breathing and the stinging tears under control. “No, I’m okay. We have the case. We can’t-”

“To hell with the case.” Bill says, “You’re walking around with a broken arm. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“B-because …” Holden sniffs, his voice wavering on the verge of a sob. 

“That’s it.” Bill says, “Come on, I’m taking you to a hospital.” 

“But, the profile-”

“Can wait. You’re in serious pain.” 

“But-”

“No ‘buts’.” Bill says, strictly. “You’re going whether you walk down to the car of your own volition, or if I have to hog-tie you and throw you over my shoulder.” 

Holden draws in a hitched breath, and swipes at his eyes with his good arm, succeeding only in smearing the tears across his cheeks rather than drying them.

“Well, which one is it going to be?” Bill asks. 

Holden lifts his chin, and climbs to his feet. 

“That’s what I thought.” Bill says, nodding towards the door. “Let’s go.” 

Holden follows him back down to the elevator, his gaze focused on the dated, floral carpet under his feet. 

A part of him is still clinging to his denial, telling himself that they’re going to get to the hospital only for the doctor to say it’s a simple sprain and his pain tolerance is just that low. He’d created a bigger problem while they were here trying to solve a different one. And next time, for the love of God, he needs to pick up his damn feet. The doctor might say everything in front of Bill; and that idea, more than anything, is what he fears. 

~

With the clock hovering somewhere around dinner time, the ER waiting room is half-empty. After Bill helps him fill out the paperwork, Holden is given a bed and a nurse within half an hour. She does a quick exam and takes vitals before letting him know the doctor will be in soon. 

“I’m gonna go back out and call the precinct.” Bill says, “I’ll let them know you’re sick, and won’t be in tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?” Holden protests. 

“I’m pretty sure your arm is broken.” Bill says, “Even if they can just patch you up with a cast, you need to get some rest. You’ve been walking around like that for a week.”

“But …” 

“But what?”

“What if it’s not?” Holden whispers. 

Bill looks skeptical, and doesn’t try to argue. He’s already made up his mind. 

“Stay put.” He says, and leaves the room without giving Holden a chance to protest further. 

By the time he comes back from the phone call, the doctor arrives to do a quick examination. Holden is forced to go through another painful bout of turning, rotating, and palpating at the doctor’s hands before the man says he’s going to prescribe some pain meds and order an x-ray. 

“Do you think it’s broken?” Bill asks. 

“More than likely.” The doctor says. “We just need to confirm where, and how badly. Most of the time breaks in the forearm require surgery.” 

Holden feels the breath go out of his lungs. The doctor, entirely lacking in bedside manner, offers no further reassurance before leaving the room. 

“Surgery?” Holden whispers, casting Bill a worried gaze. 

“He said ‘maybe’.” 

“No, he said ‘most of the time.’” Holden says, letting his head drop back against the pillows. “Fuck.” 

His denial begins to slip away, lost inside the knife-edge grip of fear. He’s never had any major operation besides the removal of his tonsils so long ago that he barely remembers the experience. The thought of being cut into and his bones rearranged releases a swarm of nauseated butterflies into his belly. 

Holden opens his eyes when Bill puts a hand on his leg. 

“I can’t believe you were going to let me have you walk around with a broken arm for another week or two.” Bill says, “Come on, Holden. You’re smarter than that.”

“Am I?” 

“Yeah, a lot smarter. What were you thinking?” 

Holden slips his eyelids open to meet Bill’s probing gaze. Under the severe, white lights of the hospital, his eyes are pale blue, almost transparent. They have the ability to make Holden both bloom with warmth as if dappled in sunlight, and shudder as if under the severity of a thunderstorm. Right now, he can’t tell which one it is because he’s disappointing Bill - just as he had tried hard not to do - but he wouldn’t want anyone else here at the hospital with him. 

“I know it was stupid of me.” He whispers, focusing on his lap where his injured arm is laying limply across his thighs. “I should have done something about it when we got back from Washington. I just … I was afraid that you’d think that-”

“That I’d think what?” Bill asks, incredulously. 

Holden closes his eyes against the prick of fresh tears. “That I wasn’t doing enough.”

“What do you mean? Not enough?”

“For the case.” Holden whispers, and now that he’s saying it aloud it sounds silly and ridiculous. 

Bill lets out a low sigh that matches Holden’s thoughts. “You’ve been walking around with a broken arm for a week because you thought I wouldn’t find that kind of injury a valid reason for you to slow down and step away from work for a minute?” 

Holden presses his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, quelling the wet, stinging glaze of overwrought, agonized tears. Every part of him wants to fall to pieces in this hospital bed, but he can’t do that. A broken arm is bad enough. Bill doesn’t need to be bothered with his dramatics, too. 

Holden’s eyes dart open again when Bill’s palm settles against his cheek. His fingers dip gently into Holden’s nape, ensuring he can’t escape as he draws him closer; and Holden doesn’t have the will to resist as Bill’s gentle, yet firm grip guides Holden’s forehead to his shoulder. 

“I know it’s been a lot.” Bill says, his voice soothing like a deep, steady rainfall. “We’ve all been under a lot of stress, with Atlanta and everything else. We’re carrying more responsibilities than we should, but that’s why it’s important for all of us to be in good health.” 

Holden sniffs, keeping his forehead pressed to Bill’s shoulder so that the tears traveling miserably down his cheeks aren’t visible. 

“Do you hear what I’m saying?” Bill asks, softly, giving Holden’s shoulder a nudge. 

Holden nods. 

“I need you out here on consult with me. And I need you healthy.” 

Holden nods again, not trusting his voice to conjure a proper reply. 

“Okay.” Bill says. He gives Holden’s back another stern pat before guiding his head back from his shoulder. 

Holden slowly looks up at him, afraid he’ll see annoyance or disappointment in Bill’s gaze, but Bill is half smiling despite his frustration. 

“That said, if you ever do this again, you’re going to get worse than a talking-to.” Bill says, offering a faint chuckle. 

Holden laughs against the knot of tears in his throat. “Understood.” 

“Good.” Bill says. 

He goes back to the chair in the corner, and sits there like he’s standing guard. He doesn’t move from that spot even when the nurse comes to take Holden down for the x-ray, and he’s still there when they come back. By the time the radiologist reads the x-ray and the doctor comes back with the news that Holden had gotten quite lucky and the fracture is isolated to the ulna, a few hours have passed. But he doesn’t complain, or check his watch. He stays close while the doctor puts the cast on Holden’s arm, and gives him instructions on care and follow-up. 

It’s almost ten o’clock by the time they get out of the hospital. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” Bill says. 

“Yeah, I could eat.” Holden agrees. 

They stop to pick up pizza at a hole-in-the-wall spot just off the highway. The neon sign above the wood-shingled roof bathes the patio picnic table and deserted parking lot in alternating flashes of red and green while the mild breeze coming off the water carries the distant hum of traffic on the highway. They’re quiet, not discussing Holden’s arm any longer. Holden can’t think about the fading pain as Bill’s eyes, washed in neon, shift from mellow rainclouds to the flash of lightning. In the distance, the Ben Franklin Bridge glistens under the light of a thousand stars, leading somewhere in the direction of home. 


	26. never felt sexier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: I've got a prompt! Sick Holden though, so I hope that's okay since you seem to be getting a lot of them... Holden's been throwing up all day, and Bill has to man-handle him to get him to shower, eat, drink, etc. (I'm not sure if Bill can physically carry Holden, but damn would that be so super sweet to read!)

Flu season could not have attacked Holden at a worse time. He blames it on the soggy atmosphere in Oregon, the constant rain, the fluctuating temperatures. They’re supposed to be helping the local police with canvassing the morning he wakes up with a headache pounding through his temples and his stomach churning with nausea. He stumbles to the bathroom to dry heave into the toilet bowl, expelling remnants of previous night’s dinner and acidic bile. 

He’s still lying on the cool tile of the hotel bathroom when Bill knocks on his door. Holden shouts for him to come in, and presses both hands over his clammy cheeks. 

The door squeaks open, and Bill’s footsteps shuffle across the carpet. 

“Holden?”

“In here.” Holden calls, suppressing a groan. 

Bill comes around the corner to poke his head into the bathroom. Immediate concern washes across his expression when he sees Holden sprawled on his back in his underwear. 

“What happened?” Bill asks, rushing to his side. 

He kneels down to press the back of his hand to Holden’s forehead, searching for an elevated temperature. 

“I don’t know.” Holden whispers, pressing his eyes shut. “I felt fine yesterday.” 

“I think you have a fever.” Bill says, “How long have you been laying here?”

“Not long.” 

“Can you get up?”

Holden nods. His head spins as Bill clutches his hands, and pulls him upright. Holden pauses, lowering his head and squeezing his eyes shut against the loud ringing in his ears and the darkness infringing on the corners of his vision. 

“Are you going to be sick again?” Bill asks, worriedly.

Holden shakes his head, vehemently. It’s more of a command to himself than a reasonable affirmation. 

“Okay, come on.” Bill says. He slips one arm around Holden’s back, and the other under his legs. “Put your arm around my neck.”

“Bill, no. I can walk.”

“If you pass out, I’m going to have to carry you as dead weight.” Bill says, “Help me out here.”

Holden sighs heavily, and slips his arm around Bill’s neck. 

Bill climbs to his feet, hoisting Holden bridal style in his arms. Holden clings onto him with both arms, his stomach swaying despite the fact that he’s not trying to walk. 

The thought that Bill might have been right doesn’t cross his mind as Bill carries him out of the bathroom and back to the bed. He’s gotten through a bout of the flu on his own plenty of times before when he was single. Despite the fact that he doesn’t have to do everything on his own now, he still resents the idea of being dependent on Bill - especially for something as simple as walking. 

Holden quickly retrieves his arms from Bill’s neck as his backside meets the sheets. He leans back against the pillows, and presses his eyes shut. 

“I just need a minute.” Holden says, “I’ll be okay.”

“Holden, you have a fever. You can’t go to work like this.”

“But-”

“No.” Bill says, more firmly. “You want to get everyone else sick?”

Holden slips his eyes open to cast Bill a resigned frown. “No.”

“Then you’re staying here.” Bill says, “I’ll go downstairs and get you some eggs and toast from the continental breakfast. You need to eat something.”

Holden nods, unable to scrape together any further arguments. 

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” Bill says, leaning down to drop a kiss on Holden’s forehead. 

After Bill leaves the room, Holden rolls over on his side and glares at the wallpaper in misery. He would rather tread through muddy crime scenes, talk to victim’s families, and spend twelve hours at a time down at the precinct than be forced to stay in bed with the flu. It’s the first time in a while that he’s been sick, and it had to happen while they were on consult. To be fair, they’re hardly ever not on consult these days, but maybe he would be more receptive of Bill’s care if they were at home where that type of affection belongs. 

When Bill returns with a plate of eggs and toast, he makes Holden sit up in the bed, and watches him eat the first half of the meal before announcing he’s going to head over to the precinct. 

“I might not be back until late.” Bill says, “Are you going to be okay here by yourself?” 

“Yeah.” Holden says, “I’ll call and order carry out later if I feel like eating.”

Bill gets up to grab a bottle of water from the minifridge, and digs for the Ibuprofen in Holden’s suitcase.

Holden swallows down two tablets with a few sips of the water, and caps the bottle.” 

“Drink all of that.” Bill says, waving his finger at the water bottle.“There’s more in the fridge. You need to stay hydrated.”

Holden sighs, and casts him an impertinent gaze. “Yes, daddy.”

Bill scowls. “I mean it.”

“Okay.” Holden says, sinking down against the pillows. “I got it. You should go to work.”

“Try to get some sleep.” Bill says, bending down to plant another kiss on his cheek. “I love you, baby.”

Holden scrunches his eyes shut, and grumbles, “I love you, too.”

He hates to be treated like a helpless child, but the moment that Bill is gone, he wishes for the reassuring touch on his fevered forehead just one more time. 

He falls back into restless sleep that’s dogged by disjointed dreams and rising body temperature. When he wakes up a few hours later, he’s slick with perspiration, and the bedsheets are clinging to his back. He staggers out of bed, struck by a fresh wave of nausea. 

After vomiting once more and laying on the bathroom floor for what feels like an hour, he crawls back to the bed, and climbs onto the other side of the mattress where the sheets aren’t soaked through by fevered sweating. 

He drinks down some water, and turns on the television in an attempt to distract himself from his discomfort. 

The day crawls by into languid agony. The fever seems to break around noon, but the lack of sweating doesn’t ease the sharp pain piercing his temples or the nausea hedging at his belly the second he tries to sit up. He fades in and out of sleep between re-runs of day time soap operas and weather reports, and when the five o’clock news rolls around with another dead body to add to the tally, he shuts the TV off completely.

Dragging the pillow over his head, he smothers a frustrated groan. Despite how poorly he feels, he despises the thought of lying worthlessly in bed while another woman goes missing. 

Some time later, the telephone on the nightstands rings, interrupting yet another drifting nap. Pushing the pillow away from his face, and he blindly grabs for the phone and presses it to his ear. 

“Hello?”

“It’s me.” Bill says, “I’m about to leave the precinct. How are you feeling?”

“Terrible.” Holden whispers. 

“Are you hungry? I can pick something up.”

“I puked up breakfast. I don’t think it’s worth it.” Holden says, uttering a weary sigh. 

“You gotta eat something, baby.”

“The thought of eating makes me sick.” Holden complains, “I just want to sleep.”

“Okay.” Bill says, “I’ll be back in a little.”

They hang up, and Holden buries his head in the pillows again. 

A little while later, Bill arrives with a plastic bag from the grocery store in tow. He tucks several water bottles in the fridge, and crosses the room to where Holden is cuddled under the sheets in the fetal position. 

Holden pushes the pillows away from his face as Bill’s weight settles on the edge of the bed. Bill’s fingers stroke his hair back from his forehead to feel his temperature again. 

“Fever broke.” Bill says, his brow furrowed in concentration. “That’s a good sign.”

“Yeah, we need to let housekeeping in tomorrow morning.” Holden says, “I’ve never sweated so much in my life.”

Bill chuckles, softly. “You think you can get up for a bath?”

“Are you saying I stink?”

“In the kindest way possible.” Bill says, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. 

“Ugh,” Holden groans, “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted to come back to after working for ten hours … bathing your sick as death partner and trying not to get puked on?”

“Yeah, it’s really sexy.” Bill says, unperturbed by Holden’s complaints. 

“Oh, yeah, this feels so sexy.” Holden says, “I’ve never felt sexier, in fact.”

“Come on,” Bill says, carefully dragging Holden upright from the sheets. “Let’s get you cleaned up. We can go over to my room.”

“Are you sure you want to sleep in the same bed as me tonight?”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Bill says, slipping his arm around Holden’s waist. 

Holden’s legs tremble as Bill helps him out of the bed, and he loops his arm tighter around Bill’s neck. They shuffle slowly across the carpet to the bathroom. 

“Can you stand?” Bill asks. 

Holden clutches the edge of the sink counter, and squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of dizziness. He shakes his head. 

“Here, sit down.” Bill says, easing him down to the closed lid of the toilet seat. 

Holden crouches with his head cradled in his hands while Bill runs water into the bathtub, testing it with his fingertips to make sure it’s the right temperature. When the tub is filled, Holden strips out of his underwear, and grips Bill’s shoulder to steady himself. 

He sinks down into the water with a heavy sigh, and runs wet hands over his flushed cheeks. 

“Better?” Bill asks, softly, sitting down on the edge of the tub surround. 

“Yeah, thanks.” 

Bill passes him each bottle of soap while Holden bathes slowly, making certain not to create any sudden movements that would disturb the careful equilibrium in his head. When he’s done, he leans back against the cool plaster, and shuts his eyes. 

The backs of Bill’s fingers stroke wet curls back from his temple and wander down his cheek. Holden turns his face into the caress, keeping his eyes shut over the relief swelling hotly against his eyelids. 

“You okay?” Bill asks, quietly, noting the tremble in Holden’s chin. 

Holden nods, carefully opening his eyes to glimpse Bill’s concerned gaze watching over him. “Yes.” 

They’re both quiet as Bill helps him out of the tub, and wraps the towel around his shoulders. Some of the dizziness has slacked off, but Holden allows his body to sway into Bill’s chest. When Bill’s hands instinctively curl around his waist to draw him closer, Holden nestles his forehead against his shoulder. 

“Thank you.” He whispers, his voice low and raspy. 

Bill holds him a little tighter, one hand patting Holden’s lower back. “It’s okay, Holden. This is what you do when you love someone.”

Holden sniffs, and nods against Bill’s shoulder. But he doesn’t know, and maybe no one has ever really loved him as much as Bill does. The thought clings to the back of Holden’s mind as Bill digs clean pajamas out of his suitcase, and helps him get dressed. 

He’s already feeling better by the time they walk over to Bill’s room where the bed is freshly made up and void of any hint of sickness. 

Bill puts him in bed, and goes to get a shower himself. When he comes back, he retrieves the saltine crackers he’d purchased at the store from the bag, and climbs into bed with Holden to coax him into eating a few. 

“Fine. I’ll eat them if you tell me about the case.” Holden says, snuggling down against the sheets. 

Bill props himself up on his elbow, casting Holden an exasperated gaze. 

Holden pops one of the crackers in his mouth, and chews deliberately. 

“Okay. Fine.” Bill says. 

He goes on to tell Holden about the progress they had made today, the new victim, and the witness statements they had taken. Somewhere around the boyfriend’s alibi, Holden feels himself drifting off again. This time, he isn’t agitated with fever, and he feels his limbs sinking heavily into the mattress. The last thing he recalls before drifting off entirely is Bill’s fingers wandering absently through his hair, and the sound of his voice, a low timbre, a cadence like a reassuring lullaby. 


	27. a new year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: Ooh, a prompt!: they spend their first new years together (maybe it’s right in the middle of bill’s divorce so it’s not quite how they’d like to have it but hey, at least they’re together).

Bill doesn’t like parties. He doesn’t even appreciate semi-formal dinners inside his own home. Even special occasions like Christmas and Thanksgiving don’t earn all the hoopla they receive, in his opinion. Hosting dinners and barbecues had always been Nancy’s thing. He’d spent quite a few years vetoing as many of her party ideas that he could, preferring the solitary affair of eating on the road or in a diner off some Midwestern, vacant highway where no one knows his name to the discomfort of sitting through a meal pretending to be a happy family - to each other and to guests. 

But for Holden, he would do about anything, and Holden likes to mark special occasions. He likes it when Bill cooks for him, and he likes spending every second of their free time together.

Besides, it’s New Years - their first New Years together, the start of something fresh. Holden had said as much when he persuaded Bill that they should have dinner together and stay up drinking champagne until the strike of midnight and beyond, and it’s what Bill keeps telling himself as he pulls the roast chicken out of the oven. A variety of steamed vegetables and mashed potatoes go on the side, and there’s a bottle of Irish whiskey waiting to be cracked open. 

Holden is bringing the champagne and dinner rolls. The arrangement might have seemed lopsided to an outsider considering how much work Bill had put into the meal, but he likes to keep himself busy and hadn’t complained. 

The divorce had begun a few months ago, beginning about as amiably as one could expect and quickly unraveling from there. The scarce borderline of when he and Nancy ended and he and Holden began has been the subject of a few intense arguments. She knows he’s seeing someone new, but not that it's Holden - and Bill intends to keep it that way for the considerable future. 

Still, she’d called him earlier this evening to inform him that she is taking Brian out of the city to go visit her parents for the holiday. The call ended with a snarky remark about the fact that he should have no issue with the situation since he’s already moved on with someone else. It had taken every ounce of his effort not to shout at her that he isn’t hooking up with some floozy that he just met, that it’s someone he’s known and trusted for years, and probably loved for just as long. 

He channels his frustration into juggling three different pots and pans on the stovetop, hoping to blow off the extra steam by the time Holden arrives. 

He’s just pulling the vegetables off the steamer when the doorbell rings. Switching off the oven, Bill goes to the front door with the apron still tied loosely around his waist. 

Holden is standing on the front porch in a blue button-down and gray blazer. He’s juggling a bottle of champagne, the dinner rolls, and a bouquet of flowers in his hands. 

“Flowers? Seriously, what do I look like?” 

Holden is smirking triumphantly as he steps over the threshold. “You don’t like them?” 

Bill regards the superfluous arrangement of daisies, carnations, and baby’s breath with his mouth pursed into a stubborn line before he sighs, and takes them out of Holden’s hand. 

“We should put them in water before they wilt.” He says. 

“So you  _ do  _ like them?” Holden snickers, tagging along behind Bill as they make their way into the kitchen. 

“Well, I’m sure you paid a pretty penny for them. I wouldn’t want them to die in the space of a few hours.” 

Bill locates a vase that isn’t too dusty in the recesses of one of his cabinets, and fills it with water. 

“I didn’t want to get roses.” Holden says, as he unloads the champagne and dinner rolls on the table. “That seemed a bit much.”

“Yes, it would be.” Bill says, nudging the flowers to the center of the table. “Thank you for not doing that.”

He goes back to the stove to start carving the roast chicken which is resting in the pot, and Holden scurries up behind him to peek over his shoulder. 

“God, this smells and looks amazing.” Holden says. He tugs on the apron strings with a chuckle, “I love this look by the way.”

Setting aside the fork and knife, Bill turns around to wrap his arms around Holden’s waist. Despite his still simmering frustrations with Nancy and the divorce, he musters a casual tone, “Well, my mother did always say I would make a great housewife one day.”

Holden bursts into laughter, his head tilting back to expose the fanged edges of his canines and the pretty, white stretch of his throat. As he tilts his forehead against Bill’s, his eyes are sparkling, his cheeks flushed with lively joy. 

Bill kisses him, suddenly overwhelmed with the absolutely undeserving amount of luck he’d stumbled upon by having Holden reciprocate his affections. Holden hums delightedly into the kiss, and wraps his arms around Bill’s neck. 

Holden’s body in his arms never fails to get Bill’s blood flowing in the opposite direction of frustration. He latches onto this flare of satisfaction in an otherwise dismal day, and turns Holden around to push him up against the counter. 

Holden whimpers softly, his mouth slipping open beneath the crush of Bill’s lips. He paws at Bill’s chest, but his shuddering only encourages Bill to hasten his ministrations. Clutching Holden’s cheek, he kisses his way down Holden’s jawline and into his throat where the skin is highly sensitive. There’s a spot below Holden’s ear that never fails to extract a helpless whimper. 

Holden makes that strangled noise now, but quickly surpasses it with a quiet protest, “Bill, wait.”

Bill leans back, catching Holden’s furrowed brow. “What?”

“You’re going to ruin my clothes and my hair before we even sit down to eat.” Holden whispers. 

“So?” Bill mutters, leaning in for another kiss. 

Holden tilts his chin away, and plants his hands firmly against Bill’s chest. “ _ So  _ … the food is going to be cold and my look is going to be destroyed before-”

“Your look?” Bill echoes, flatly. 

Holden reaches up to smooth the hair at his temple, replying primly. “Yes.”

“Christ.” Bill says, leaning back. “Fine.” 

He turns back to the stovetop, and Holden scoffs an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“You’re the one who put all the hard work into making dinner.” Holden says, “Do you want it to go cold?”

“We could microwave it.”

“That’s disgusting.” 

“I said ‘okay’.” Bill says, sharply, casting an agitated glance over his shoulder at Holden. 

Holden leans against the counter, his mouth set in a defiant line. His voice dwindles to a disappointed whisper, “I just wanted to have a nice dinner with you.”

Bill sighs, pressing his eyes shut. Guilt is quick to rise up his chest to scald his cheeks, reminding him that he’s the asshole in this situation, not Holden. He sets the fork and knife down again, and rubs a hand over his eyes. 

“Look …” He says, quietly. “Nancy called before you got here. She’s taking Brian up to see her parents.” 

Holden watches him quietly, awaiting the explanation to emerge. Just the mention of Nancy is enough to cast a dark pall over any conversation, but Holden can always tell when there’s more lurking beneath the surface so he might as well spit it out. 

“She’s just angry.” Bill says, “She knows I’m seeing someone else, and it’s killing her that she doesn’t know who it is so she resorts to making mean-spirited comments to get under my skin.”

Holden gazes at the floor for a moment before he tentatively puts a hand on Bill’s arm. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. 

“It’s fine. It’s not your fault. None of this is.”

Holden edges closer, slipping his other hand around Bill’s waist. They share a silent, apologetic gaze before he presses himself into Bill’s embrace. 

Bill wraps both arms around him, and tucks his cheek against Holden’s hair. Closing his eyes, he lets out a slow breath, trying to exhale the last of the frustration lingering in his chest. 

“I’m really …  _ really  _ glad you’re here.” Bill whispers, rubbing a hand down Holden’s back. “You know that, right?”

Holden nods into his shoulder. 

Bill slips a hand under his chin, and lifts Holden’s head so that their eyes can meet. 

“I’m sorry.” Bill says, “Let’s have a nice dinner, okay? And I won’t put my hands on you for the rest of the night if you want.”

Holden’s scowl melts into a rueful smile. “That is  _ not  _ what I said. Not even remotely.” 

Bill chuckles, and plants a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth. “No?”

“No. After I gorge myself on this delicious meal that you’ve cooked for me and had about three glasses of champagne, I’m not going to want your hands off of me.” 

“I’m a patient man. I can wait.” Bill says. 

Holden wriggles out of his arms to retrieve the mashed potatoes from the counter. He whisks it to the dinner table while Bill finishes carving up the chicken. 

An hour later, the sun is down and the only light is the yellow glow from the kitchen. Bill leans back in his chair, nursing a glass of whiskey while he watches Holden polish off a second helping alongside his third glass of champagne. He’s looking a little flushed and woozy, not entirely capable of engaging in passionate, lucid sex, but Bill can’t help the content smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s enough that Holden is here with him, watching the hours creep towards a new year full of possibility. Even if he’s tipsy and gorged on food, asleep before the clock even hits midnight, tonight was a dinner party worth having.


	28. sleeping at last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: Holden is irritable and sleep-deprived. Bill handles it like a champ and convinces Holden to take a nap only by offering to lay down with him.

The Friday after they return from a three week long stretch in Cape Cod battling sandy gravesites and wrangling high-strung socialites upset with their vacations being interrupted, Bill and Holden take the day off. Holden, who was against the suggestion, was out-voted by both Wendy and Bill who asserted that they both needed some rest before taking on the next case. 

Both of them had gotten very little sleep over the past few weeks with the Provincetown officials and a number of local high rollers breathing down their necks to put an end to the rapes and murders of three privileged teen girls. The trip ended in success, but Bill is not sure when he’ll ever get caught back up on his sleep. 

He sleeps in late, and wakes around ten to the buzz of his neighbor’s mower blasting by a few feet from his window. Rolling over with a groan, he wallows in irritation for the space of a minute before convincing himself to get up and not waste the day languishing in bed. 

He gets up, makes a quick breakfast, and starts a load of laundry before slouching down on the couch. The handful of chores are about all the energy he can muster with a bone-deep exhaustion still tugging at his limbs. He half-watches the midday baseball game projecting in sunny, over-saturated greens and blues all the way from Chicago before the timer on the washer jolts him awake again. 

While the laundry tumbles in the dryer, Bill takes himself to the kitchen to get a cup of water. His gaze glances off the telephone mounted on the wall before shifting to his watch. It’s edging closer to noon, and he can’t imagine Holden would have slept in so late. It must be safe to call now. 

The last thing he wants to do is disturb Holden’s rest. Holden always takes on the brunt of responsibility when it comes to their work, piling as much on his plate as he can possibly manage - and then some - mentally flogging himself if things don’t go according to plan. The last few days in Provincetown, he’d looked exhausted and threadbare, but hadn’t wanted to hear a word about stretching himself too thin. 

Bill picks up the telephone and dials. The phone rings several times, and Bill chews his lower lip nervously. 

Finally, Holden picks up with a strident “Hello?”

“Hey,” Bill says, frowning softly at Holden’s tone. “It’s me.”

“Oh, hi.”

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, not all.” Holden says, “I was working.”

“Working? Holden, we’re supposed to be taking this day off to rest.” 

“No,  _ you  _ took it off the rest. I told you and Wendy I was fine.”

Bill clenches his jaw. Now that makes it sound like he’s slacking off for no good reason. He struggles not to match Holden’s brusque tone. 

“Fine.” He says, “Can I at least come over and keep you company?” 

“I guess so.” Holden says, sounding bewildered. “If you want to watch me work on this profile, be my guest.”

“Well, if you’re going to be like that then I guess I will come over, and you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Holden’s sigh rustles across the line. “Why? So we can just piss each other off?”

“No.” Bill says, not taking the bait. “I’ll bring beer.”

“Great.”

“Great. See you in a little bit.” 

They hang up, and Bill puts his hands on his hips while his gaze wanders around the quiet, sun-bathed kitchen. The back yard needs mowed. The weeds are trying to take back the patio space, but he figures he can push it off until tomorrow. Despite Holden’s cantankerous mood, he’d trade coaxing him into putting a pause on work and getting some much needed rest over riding the lawn mower under the baking sun any day. 

Bill pulls the laundry out of the dryer, and only takes out what he needs before leaving the rest in an unfolded pile. Throwing on khakis and a polo, he grabs the case of beer out of the fridge, and leaves the house. 

Once he reaches Holden’s apartment, he knocks on the door, and barely waits for Holden’s reply of “it’s open” before slipping inside. Bill frowns as he eases the door shut behind him. 

Holden has the curtains drawn over the bright, July sunshine, leaving the room in semi-darkness. His desk in the corner is piled with case files and legal pads, and the wall above it is decorated with a dozen crime scene photos held up by strips of white tape. The coffee table is it’s own mess of documents, police reports, and Post-It notes.

Holden emerges from the kitchen in a white t-shirt and blue flannel pajama pants. He’s carrying a cup of coffee in his hand as he makes his way back across the room to the desk. 

“Hey.” Bill says. 

“Hi.” Holden mutters, raising his eyebrows as if to ask whether Bill is pleased that he’d forced his way into this madness. “Excuse the mess. I have more room to spread out  _ at work. _ ” 

Bill ignores that pointed remark, and holds up the case of beer. “You want one?”

“Coffee first.” Holden says, taking a sip from his mug, and plopping down at the desk. 

“It’s past noon.”

“I know. I can tell time.”

Bill clenches his jaw. If they hadn’t just come off such a difficult case, Holden’s attitude might have warranted a stronger response. This conversation might have been going something like, “are you begging to get turned over my knee?” But this isn’t playing hard-to-get. Even in the shadows of the apartment, Bill can see the dark circles and glassy, bloodshot quality of Holden’s eyes. 

He puts the beer in the fridge, and wanders back out to the kitchen. 

“Looks like you’re really dug in.” He observes, scanning the documents on the coffee table. “How long have you been up?”

“A bit.” Holden says, not looking up from his legal pad. “I went for a run, and grabbed a bagel at that place down the street before starting on this.” 

Bill circles the coffee table, and edges closer to him. “Did you sleep okay?” 

Holden sighs, and sets his pen down firmly. “Bill, I said you could come over. I didn’t say you could badger me with questions and distract me from this profile I’m working on.”

“Fine. Then tell me what you have so far and maybe I can help you.”

Holden groans, running a hand over his face. “Bill, please. My head hurts.”

“Then give it a break for a damn second.” 

Holden slumps lower in his chair, a scowl forming on his face. 

“Here, stop looking at this for a minute.” Bill says, crouching down beside him, and swiveling the chair to face him. 

Holden tries not to meet his eyes as Bill slowly runs his hands up his thighs. As they reach his hips, he squirms, and draws in a deep, shaky breath. His knuckles press against his mouth, silencing the tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. 

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Bill asks, softly. 

Holden’s jaw clenches. He gives his head a slight shake. 

Bill sighs. Just what he’d been afraid of. When they’re working, Holden’s brain is always working at high velocity, and sometimes it’s a struggle to get it to slow down even once the case is over like some kind of doped up fight or flight response. 

“You  _ have  _ to stop working for a minute.” Bill says, as gently as he can. 

Holden turns his face away, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Look at me.” Bill says, giving his hips a squeeze. “Holden.”

Holden’s eyes glisten as he opens them, and tremulously meets Bill’s gaze. 

“You cannot work like this.” Bill says, “Look at this place - it looks like a madman lives here.” 

Holden lets out a choked laugh. “Yeah, it kind of does.”

“Come on. You need some rest.”

“I don’t think I can.” Holden says, “It’s pointless. I laid in bed for six hours last night trying to sleep, and I couldn’t get my mind to shut off. So I might as well work if that’s what my brain wants to do.”

Bill rises to his feet, and tugs persistently on Holden’s hand. “Come on.” 

“Bill, no. I think-”

“You’re not thinking.” Bill says, pulling him to his feet. “Not after being awake for over twenty-four damn hours. Come on, I’ll lay with you.”

Holden braces his hands against Bill’s chest, resisting for the space of a minute before nodding. “Okay. Fine. But if I’m still awake in an hour, I’m getting back up.”

“Deal.” 

Bill leads them down the hallway to Holden’s bedroom, leaving the lights off as they find their way to the sheets in the darkness. He urges Holden into the bed before, and climbs in beside him. Pulling the sheets over them, he settles down with his chest tucked against Holden’s back and his arm wrapped around his waist. 

After several minutes, Holden exhales a resigned sound. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Neither of them mention that they’d spent nearly every single day for the past weeks working closely on the case. It’s funny how Bill can miss Holden so much when they’re working, how they’re physically so close to one another, yet emotionally separated by the rigors of the case. It’s best not to let personal feelings overlap with professional ones. They have to stay focused on the work, but more than that, they have to keep the good things they have between them safe and sacred, untouched by the darkness they’re witnessing. 

Bill slides a hand up Holden’s back, and gently massages his shoulder. He can’t see Holden’s face in the darkness, but he can feel the way his limbs begin to deflate, tension melting from his body. He sighs softly, turning onto his stomach as Bill’s hand works its way across stiff muscles. 

“How’s that?” Bill murmurs, leaning in to kiss the back of Holden’s neck. 

“Mm.” Holden murmurs, sleepily. 

Bill smiles, but doesn’t say another word to interrupt the gradual decline from high-strung exhaustion to deep slumber. He eases his hand into a soothing, circular rubbing motion until he feels Holden go limp, his breath expelling in deep, heavy sighs. Sleeping at last. 

Bill sinks back against the pillows, and listens to him breathe and dream. It isn’t long before his own lingering exhaustion overcomes him. He falls asleep, satisfied with the thought that there’s no alarm set to wake them. They have the whole day to sleep if they like, to rest, and to not think of anything except the simple pleasure of lying next to each other. 


	29. hell is real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: i'd kill for bill holding holden, whether it's while they're at home or out on a case. maybe it's the first time holden is so overwhelmed that he actually asks for bill's reassurance?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason when I started thinking about this prompt, the song summer girl by Haim came to mind. Obviously, it’s female gendered so it doesn’t 100% fit, but I like this verse especially:
> 
> Peer around the corner at you / From over my shoulder, I need you  
I need you to understand / These are the earthquake drills that we ran  
Under the freeway overpasses / The tears behind your dark sunglasses  
The fears inside your heart as deep as gashes / Walk beside me, not behind me  
Feel my unconditional love

The hum of tires over endless asphalt drones into the stifled silence. Not even the radio is playing. Outside the window, miles of idyllic, verdant farmland melds into Amish country, dappling the sunlit countryside with simple, two-story houses, silos, and never ending fence lines. Bill might have appreciated the long, afternoon drive except that they’re trekking back over the county line to the local precinct in Millersburg, Ohio where the case originated. The killer had struck just beyond the jurisdictional line, creating a disorganized mess of too many detectives, police chiefs, sheriffs, and mayors fighting over the particulars of the boy’s body found in the river. 

Bill casts a surreptitious glance across the car at Holden who has been utterly silent since they left the crime scene. The hostile nature of the police on the scene - frustrated with the FBI suddenly traipsing into their jurisdiction - had triggered some kind of mental lapse, at least that’s the way Bill is profiling his partner. Sometimes he gets overwhelmed. 

He’d called the dead boy “Lubie” when the victim’s name was Larry. Lubie, as in Lubie Geter, as in Atlanta, as in a case that’s been closed for well over six months. Clearly, the rigors of their time in Georgia have not vacated his mind. 

The detective on the scene barked that the kid’s name was Larry, and asked if they even knew what they were doing on the scene, if they had showed up at the right place. Holden pulled himself together long enough to get through the details of the scene, but had walked away abruptly the moment they had what they needed. Twenty minutes into their trip back to the precinct in Millersburg, he still hasn’t said a word. 

_ You just got overwhelmed. This whole case has been nothing but mass confusion.  _ Bill weighs the reassurance in his mind, but decides it sounds far too condescending. 

_ Fuck that guy. He’s a prick.  _ Too aggressive. 

_ Do you want to talk about what just happened?  _ Prying. 

Bill reaches into his pocket, and extracts a cigarette. He rolls down the window while he smokes. As the scent of nicotine fills the air, Holden shifts against his seat, drawing in a shuddering breath. He leans forward, bracing his elbows against his knees and clasping his hands over his face. 

“Are you okay?” Bill asks, the question leaping from his chest without forethought. 

Holden breathes heavily, his fingers curling anxiously through his hair. He shakes his head, but the only response is a wheezing sound that verges on panic. 

“Holden?” 

Holden’s head pops up, and his face is drained of color and misty with perspiration. 

“Pull over.” He rasps. “Right now.”

Bill puts on the breaks, bringing them to a quick halt just underneath an overpass. Holden rips off his seatbelt, and stumbles out of the car. Bill watches him stagger into the gravel just beyond the shoulder of the road, and lean over to grasp his knees. 

Muttering a curse, Bill climbs out of the car, and circles the hood to approach him. A summer breeze sifts across the long shadow of the underpass, cooling the anxious sweat beginning to gather under Bill’s collar. Holden’s panicked breathing is drowned out by the roar of the cars driving by overhead, but the shudder of his hand is obvious as he reaches into his pocket for the prescription bottle. 

Bill glances away, squinting at the distant shimmer of a mirage floating above the asphalt several yards in the distance. Until now, he’d thought the best strategy was to let Holden deal with the panic attacks in private dignity. He’s never actually witnessed one, let alone seen Holden desperately chew down the pills like he is right now, as if they’re his last lifeline, as if he’ll suffocate without them. At this moment, he’s beginning to wonder if he had been right, or if he’d simply been shielding himself from taking on that burden alongside his own. 

Bill leans against the side of the car while Holden paces back and forth in the gravel, his eyes shut as his breathing steadies. He focuses on his shoes while he smokes the last of his cigarette. After ten minutes, he clears his throat. 

“You good?” 

Holden’s pacing comes to a halt. He opens his eyes to meet Bill’s gaze, and they’re sharpened blue from the sting of tears, matching the indifferent, cloudless skies above. He swallows hard, the corners of his eyes glistening. 

Bill pushes away from the car, and shuffles closer. 

“You heard what I said.” Holden whispers. 

“Yeah. It was a mistake, a slip of the tongue.” Bill says, angling for a reassuring tone of voice. 

“That guy looked at me like I was an idiot.”

“That guy was a prick. He was just pissed the FBI was barging into his crime scene.”

Holden shakes his head, his brow creasing with a frown. “Yeah, and I’m representing the FBI. I can’t even get the victim’s name right. I mean …”

He trails off, his chin dropping towards his chest. He draws in a deep breath, an attempt to shove down the tremor of fragile emotion, but when he exhales, a soft whimper slips free. 

Bill stands perfectly still as Holden begins to crumble. He’s not sure what to do, or say. Nothing he could say right now could convince Holden that what happened is nothing to worry about and that he should just forget about it. It is something to worry about because Holden is still hung up on a case that ended months ago. 

Finally, he puts a hand on Holden’s elbow, convinced that if he doesn’t offer some kind of support, Holden is simply going to drop to the ground. 

Holden presses a hand over his eyes, masking the tears squeezing free against his eyelashes. 

“It’s okay.” Bill says, shifting closer. “I know this case feels like a mess right now, but we’ll get it sorted.” 

Holden sniffles, the sudden torrent of emotion unquelled by Bill’s assurances. 

“Holden.” He says, giving Holden’s elbow a squeeze. “Hear me?” 

Holden leans in slowly, almost as if he’s falling into Bill. Instinctively, Bill catches him with an arm around his waist, but Holden’s feet are steady beneath him; in fact, he steps purposefully closer, tucking himself against Bill’s chest. Tilting his head down, he buries his face in the front of Bill’s jacket where the layers of fabric muffle his sniveling. 

Too shocked to react in any other way, Bill wraps his arms tighter around Holden’s shivering shoulders. 

“Sometimes …” Holden’s voice wobbles hoarsely from this throat. He sucks in a hitched breath and tries again, “Sometimes, I feel like I’m losing my mind.” 

Bill slides a hand up to cradle Holden’s nape, suddenly desperate to ease his fears. He clutches Holden’s cheek to his chest, and lowers his mouth closer to Holden’s ear. 

“You’re not.” He says, “Trust me, you’re not. You’re just tired and stressed. This case is stretching us both way too thin.”

Holden sniffs. His fingers clutch tighter around Bill’s jacket, keeping his body pressed tightly to Bill’s. 

“Tell me again.” He whispers, his voice nearly drowned out by the rush of cars on the overpass above. “Th-that it’s going to be okay.”

Closing his eyes, Bill rubs Holden’s back to reinforce the thought. 

“It’s going to be okay.” He says. 

They stand still for a long moment with Holden wrapped up in Bill’s arms, clinging on as if for his life. The wind around them smells like summer while the sun begins to sink towards the horizon. A few cars fly past them on the interstate, but Bill can hardly bring himself to care that the random drivers might see two men embracing on the side of the road. 

Out here, there’s nothing for miles except for farms and a few scattered signs on the side of the road proclaiming: HELL IS REAL.  _ It sure is.  _ Bill thinks. He’s seen it, and so has Holden. They’ve been there together, but Bill refuses to leave Holden behind in the fire. He’d been wrong to be so cold and unaffectionate when Holden was looking for someone to simply tell him the world won’t stop turning because of one case, or in this moment, one slip of the tongue. 

After several minutes, Holden extracts himself from Bill’s arms. He wipes his face with his sleeve. 

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize.” Bill says, “I should have told you awhile ago, but I’m not just your partner. You can talk to me.”

Holden nods, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Thanks, Bill.”

“Come on, let’s get back.” 

They climb back into their abandoned car, and Bill pulls back onto the road. Holden turns on the radio, and rolls down the window to allow in the fresh breeze. There’s no one else for miles, and the sunset seems to last forever, it’s pink and purple hues swallowing up the lonely overpass and the last of Holden’s tears. 


	30. flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: i’d love to see a jealous holden. he just wants bill’s undivided attention and maybe he just hasn’t been getting it recently due to bill getting so close to an old buddy of his. holden feels silly about it but he just can’t hide it 😩

The house always feels bigger when Bill isn’t home. Even now, as the jagged flickers of orange light from the fireplace cast long shadows into the empty, quiet corners, the unobserved niches echo back solitude. 

Holden slouches on the couch with a glass of red wine, his second of the night. The television is playing at low volume, but he keeps losing track of the film, some spaghetti Western Bill would have forced him into enjoying. A slight nausea writhes in his belly, acidic and pitiful.

_ He’s not the jealous type. He’s not even jealous.  _ The stubborn thought gets trampled by the truth as soon as he thinks it. 

Taking a sip of his wine, he tries to swallow down the knot in his throat with the bitter flavor. He feels silly for even allowing his emotions to get the best of him. He and Bill have been together for over a year now. They spend almost every day together at work and most evenings, too. It should be enough; and he knows that he can’t monopolize every second of Bill’s free time, but some small, selfish part of him wants to. 

He knows that Bill has friends outside of him and work. He has golfing buddies, poker buddies, a few drinking buddies. It’s never bothered Holden before, not until now. 

It all started a month ago when they drove upstate to Winchester to assist in an investigation. The lead detective on the case, Charles Wineck, so happened to be a guy Bill had known in the Army. The two quickly recognized each other, and were overjoyed to have reconnected after so long. At first, Holden took the friendly banter as a positive for the case; it’s always a good sign when they can get along well with the lead and create a good working relationship, but it didn’t take long for Holden to realize Bill and Charles had once been close friends. How close he wasn’t sure, but his mind has a way of running off with an idea and fixating on it to the point of insanity. 

He should have asked Bill right away what had been the true nature of his old relationship with Charles. Instead, he tried to smother his jealousy and get them through the case as quickly as possible. The strategy hadn’t worked. Bill and Charles swapped numbers and agreed to stay in touch once the investigation concluded. 

That was two weeks ago, and now Holden is sitting at home alone pouting while Bill is out having dinner with his old pal.

Holden drains the last of his wine, and gets up for a refill. His head is just beginning to swim, a good sign. Wine usually puts him right to sleep so maybe he’ll be in bed by the time Bill gets home and he won’t have to face him. 

There will be no such luck tonight. As he shuffles back into the living room, he hears the front door unlock and creak open. Sinking down to the cushions, he arranges a neutral expression. 

Bill hangs his coat up in the entryway, and comes around the corner into the living room. 

“You’re not going to believe this.” Bill says, his eyes bright in the firelight.

“Believe what?” Holden asks, his tone coming out more flatly than he’d intended. 

Bill pulls a photograph out of his jacket pocket, and hands it over to Holden. 

“Look at this.” He says, sinking down onto the couch cushions beside Holden, “Charles still had it somewhere in an old shoe box. Can you believe that?”

Holden peers down at the black and white photograph in the scarce firelight. The snapshot captured a group of young Army recruits in their fatigues gathered around a tactical truck. Holden quickly spots Bill at the far left. He has his shirt off, and his arm slung around the neck of a fellow comrade that Holden also recognizes as Charles. 

“Why are you the only one without a shirt on?” Holden asks, mustering an amused tone. 

Bill laughs, “Who knows. Pretty foxy, huh?”

“Yeah, for sure.” Holden says. After he beat, he taps his finger over the grainy image of Charles’ face. “Is that Charles?”

“Yep.” Bill says, “It’s pretty crazy. That picture was taken in 1951. A whole lifetime ago.”

“Wow.” Holden murmurs. 

His jaw clenches as he stares at the picture. His mind can’t help but wander - and wonder. 

“You two were pretty close back then?” He asks, carefully, trying not to sound too curious.

Even so, he can feel Bill’s gaze boring into the side of his face. Heat crawls up his cheeks as hesitantly looks up from the picture. 

Bill’s expression is reserved. He gives a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Yeah.” 

“It’s too bad you lost contact. Who knows what could have happened?”  
Bill’s brow creases with a small frown. “Sure.” 

Holden draws in a deep breath, forcing down the frustration in his chest. The curiosity is gnawing at his insides, and he wants to outright demand Bill just tell him the truth. If there was something there a long time ago, fine. But what about now? Where does the boundary lie? 

“Well, I can see why you like him.” Holden says, taking a sip of his wine. “He still looks almost as good as he does in this picture.”

Bill’s scowl deepens, and Holden hears him draw in a deep breath. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Holden tenses at the irritated tone in Bill’s voice. He shoots a glance over his shoulder to see Bill’s head tilted to one side, his mouth set in a firm line. 

“Nothing. I’m just saying.” Holden says, suddenly desperate to stave off an argument. 

“Saying what?” Bill asks, impatiently. 

“Forget it.” Holden mutters, handing the picture back to Bill. 

“No. I’d like to know if you’re accusing me of something.”

“Of course not-”

“Then stop beating around the fucking bush and ask me already.”

Holden climbs to his feet, and presses his hand to his forehead as his brain gives a tipsy slosh. 

“Can we just drop it?” He asks, “I’ve had too much wine, and I’m tired.”

“Yeah, and you just implied that I’m thinking of cheating on you, so no I’m not dropping it.” Bill says, standing to grab Holden by the arm and pull him around. 

Holden braces his hands against Bill’s chest as the sudden turn makes his head spin. He presses his eyes shut, and lowers his head. The retort echoes through his brain, blazing like neon beyond his dulled senses. When Bill lays it out so plainly, it sounds worse. 

“Is that what you really think?” Bill whispers, his voice dropping suddenly from anger down into wounded disbelief. 

“No … I-I don’t know.” Holden says, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. 

Bill pulls away, scoffing incredulously. “Okay, fine, Holden. You have to know every little detail, even if it isn’t in your best interest, don’t you?” 

Holden opens his mouth to gather a reply, but Bill hands up a sharp hand. 

“Yeah, maybe there was something there.” Bill says, his eyes gleaming with frustration in the orange burn of the fire. “ _ Thirty years ago.”  _

Holden swallows hard, feeling his heart drop. It’s as he suspected, but he can always tell when Bill is being honest. And his anger isn’t defensive right now, it’s genuinely upset by the accusation. 

“Do you know how many gay men work for the FBI?” Bill asks, suddenly. “Do you know any of them besides you and me?”

Holden shakes his head. 

“That’s right.” Bill says, “So to find someone who you trust and can talk to is a real chore these days. So, if you have to know I just spent the last couple hours talking with Charles the way I can’t talk to any of my other friends, telling him how fucking lucky I am to have you.” 

Tears rush hotly to Holden’s eyes with the rush of guilt that climbs his belly and chest. He presses a hand to his mouth as Bill glares at him, his hands curled at his sides in anger. 

“Happy?” Bill asks. 

Holden sniffles against the surge of tears knotting the back of his throat and stinging his eyes as Bill turns to march out of the living room. He breaks out of his paralyzed trance, and runs after Bill. He catches him in the hallway where the light from the fireplace barely reaches the hard shadows masking the anger rippling down his jawline. 

“Bill, wait.” Holden whispers, dragging Bill around by the arm. “I’m sorry.”

Bill gazes down at him in the darkness, his brow still furrowed with disbelief. 

“I’m sorry,” Holden whispers, throwing himself into Bill’s arms. “I’m so stupid. I’m so fucking stupid.”

Bill lets out a sigh as he puts his arms around Holden’s shoulders. 

Holden presses his eyes shut, relieved that Bill is reciprocating the embrace. He scrapes together his composure, and lifts his head from Bill’s shoulder to find his eyes in the dark. 

Bill’s hand cradles his cheek, smoothing away a stray tear. 

“Please, let’s forget this ever happened.” Holden whispers, tearfully. “Tell me how stupid I am.”

“No.” Bill says, “You’re not.”

“Yes. I shouldn’t have said that.” Holden says, pressing his cheek into the warmth of Bill’s palm. “I was just jealous and drunk ... and-”

“Holden.”

Holden sniffs in a hitched breath. “What?”

“Stop talking.”.

Before Holden can protest any further, he seals his mouth over Holden’s with a deliberate kiss. Holden whimpers, leaning into the stroke of Bill’s mouth as the caress deepens. Bill takes control of the kiss, of Holden’s mouth, the graze of his teeth plying Holden’s lips apart, the sweep of his tongue tasting breathless whimpers and wine.

Holden gasps softly when their mouths break apart, and Bill’s breath gusts hotly against his cheeks. The glint of his eyes is barely visible in the darkened hallway, but Holden can feel the ripple of suppressed need in the palm of his hand gripping Holden’s cheek. 

“I love you.” Bill says, “Only you.”

Holden nods, eager to dismiss his insecurities from his mind. “I love you, too.” 

Without another word, Bill leads him down the hall to the bedroom where all thought of jealousy is burned away by the cleansing flame of his touch. 


	31. lock & key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: so since i am a fellow lover of hurt/comfort maybe you could write something where bill and Holden are making out but bill gets kinda rough and it scares holden so bill has to sort of calm Holden down and comfort him and tell him he would never hurt him

The scrape of Bill’s lighter snaps Holden’s tenuous concentration on the movie playing out across the television screen. Nervous, twitching energy hums through his veins as he peeks across the couch at Bill, the way his mouth is pursed around the cigarette. 

Bill takes a drag, and pulls the cigarette from his lips, exhaling a stream of smoke with a relaxed sigh. His hand is resting against Holden’s ankle, connecting them from opposite ends of the couch. It’s just sitting there, innocuously, but it’s making Holden’s chest squeeze and thunder. He’s itching deep inside for heavier contact, the feeling of Bill’s calloused palms against his bare skin, but a gripping rift of anxiety threatens to smother his needs. 

It’s only been a little over three weeks since Bill first kissed him, and they’re trying to take it slow. It feels like a year already has passed, and Holden’s impatience and anxiety keep on battling it out in his chest every time they’re together. He wants to go further than making out, but his nerves are holding him back. 

He’s never slept with a man before. Sure, he’s thought about it, but executing a theory in practice is a far cry from dreaming about it. What if it’s not what he expects or really wants? What if he’s terrible at it? What if Bill lays eyes on his bare cock and realizes he’s not really that homosexual? It goes on, and on, and on, a never ending tirade of insecurities. Sometimes, he wishes he could stop thinking so much. 

Holden jolts out of his reverie when Bill clears his throat, and gets up from the couch.

“I’m getting a beer from the fridge. You want one?” He asks. 

Holden shakes his head. As Bill goes into the kitchen for the beer, he stares at the empty spot at the end of the couch. They made out in that exact spot a few days ago. Bill’s mouth was on his throat, hands under his shirt. It felt juvenile and reckless and amazing. So, why is he sitting here worrying they’re going to end up in that same position again today? 

When Bill returns with his beer, he grasps Holden’s ankle, and lays his foot in his lap. Holden sinks down against the cushions, biting his lower lip. Bill’s thumb absently strokes across his ankle and down into the curve of his insole, creating a sensitive tingle that races up his leg. 

Holden stares hard at the television screen, using all his willpower not to yank his foot away. Bill takes a swig of his beer, and sets it aside on the coffee table. His other hand settles over the top of Holden’s foot. It rests there motionless for a moment before reaching up to nudge the cuff of his sweatpants up a little higher. The stroking motion of his thumb urges against the exposed skin, forcing a whimper towards the back of Holden’s throat. 

Holden presses his knuckles to his mouth, smothering the sound as quickly as he can, but he feels Bill’s gaze wander hotly across the couch towards him. 

Holden blushes as he meets Bill’s tempting gaze. Silent need hums like electricity between them as Bill lifts Holden’s foot from his lap to press a kiss against the inner ankle bone. 

Holden’s nostrils flare with a deep breath, and his head tilts back against the arm of the couch. The simple brush of Bill’s mouth against his skin makes everything go weak and helpless. He can’t resist despite his misgivings. 

The couch cushions dip beneath Bill’s weight as he turns to crawl between Holden’s thighs. His hand grazes along Holden’s thigh as he approaches, and slips under the hem of his t-shirt. 

Holden’s eyes slip open to find Bill hovering above him, his mouth inches away. He squirms, biting at his lower lip as Bill’s fingertips graze his belly just beneath the edge of his t-shirt. 

Bill leans down, and Holden almost stops breathing. His eyes slip shut, blocking out everything except for the thunder of his pulse in his ears and the warm sensation of Bill’s mouth sliding across his own. A whimper rises in the back of his throat, unbidden. 

The lingering taste of smoke and a hint of beer fills his mouth alongside the hot gust of Bill’s accelerated breathing. Holden lets his mouth go compliant beneath the stroke of Bill’s lips growing harder, hungrier. His chest pounds as he reaches up to wrap his arms around Bill’s neck, urging himself to wade into deeper waters and away from his comfort zone. 

He wants this. He wants it so much that it hurts when he’s lying in bed alone at night, but the moment Bill lays hands on him he loses all confidence. He hates to be so scared especially when Bill seems confident and certain of his desires. He wants to match that intensity, but he’ll never do it by simply watching his desires float by in his dreams from the sidelines. 

Holden lifts his head from the arm of the couch to urge his mouth against Bill’s stroking lips. He opens his mouth, letting out a shaky, whimpered breath as Bill’s tongue curls along the inner seam of his upper lip, past his teeth, and up against his palate. The deliberate drag of Bill’s tongue leaves him quivering and boneless, his belly melting with warming need. 

When Bill clutches his cheek, the grip is firm, yet trembling with need. He strokes his thumb across Holden’s cheek before applying pressure to his chin, urging Holden’s mouth open wider. Holden gasps softly Bill’s tongue invades his mouth again, lapping at his own tongue, then tracing the puckered outline of his upper and lower lip. 

Holden’s mouth tingles and warms with saliva as Bill draws back just far enough to glimpse his wide-eyed expression of quivering desire. Bill’s own eyes are hazy and swimming with some intractable hunger, a brand of need that’s so bracing Holden can feel it rolling off him in waves. 

“Fuck…” Bill curses in a low choked voice, rubbing his thumb across Holden’s wet lips with coarse, indelicate touch. “I want you.”

Holden blinks, a reply stuck in the back of his throat.

Bill’s thumb pushes past the ridge of his teeth to pin down his tongue and stretch his mouth open wider. Holden can’t breathe as Bill bends down to plant a kiss against his cheek and his upper lip, drawing the tender skin into his mouth. His thumb slips from Holden’s mouth and draws a wet line down his chin until his hand reaches Holden’s throat. 

Holden clings onto his sense of control over his desires and the situation for a scarce few seconds before Bill’s other hand seizes him by the hip. With one firm pull, Bill drags him away from the arm of the couch, spilling him fully onto his back, his legs splayed open around Bill’s waist. 

A faint strain of panic pierces Holden’s chest, getting lost in the tangle of need and racing blood. He lays paralyzed as Bill’s mouth latches onto his again, applying a harder kiss that’s fraught with building, panicked arousal. His fingers close around Holden’s jaw, leaving the heel of his hand resting against the knob of Holden’s throat, trapping gasping breaths and helpless whimpers. 

Holden could cling on, and ride out a furious make out session. He’s spent hours thinking about how much he wants Bill, how he wants it to go just a little farther. It isn’t until Bill’s hand creeps between his thighs to nudge against his swelling cock that reality eclipses fantasy, throwing him headlong into panic. 

Holden tears his mouth away from Bill’s, gasping in a trembling breath. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until his knuckles make contact with Bill’s chest, jolting them apart, and Bill leans back abruptly. 

The sudden lack of contact on Holden’s mouth and skin makes his body burn, chasing after the thrill of that touch and absorbing just how far he’d let himself go. He scrambles upright against the arm of the couch, clutching a hand to his chest as he tries to steady his breathing. 

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Bill demands, bewildered and concerned. 

Holden peeks up at him, his face flushing hot. Bill stares back at him with a worried frown knitting his brow. 

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Holden says, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to regain some of his dignity. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Holden struggles to manufacture a nonchalant tone, but his voice is shaking. “It’s fine. I’m sorry.”

Bill watches him with a confused gaze as he swings his legs over the edge of the couch, and leans forward to rub both hands over his face. 

“Hey,” He says, edging closer to put a gentle hand on Holden's shoulder, “Talk to me, Holden. Was it me?”

Holden presses his eyes shut against humiliated tears. “No, I …”

“Was I too rough?”

“ _ No. _ ” 

Bill sighs at Holden’s defiant, tearful tone. “You gotta tell me if I was.”

Holden fiercely wipes his eyes, and lifts his head. “No, it was my fault. I just … I got scared-”

The word hangs densely in the air between them. Holden can feel the impact even though he’s concentrating on the carpet under his feet, too ashamed with himself to look Bill in the eyes. 

“I scared you.” Bill says, quietly. Not a question, a conclusion.

Holden closes his eyes. The heat crawling up his cheeks intensifies. He hates that Bill knows him so well, that he’s already put together the truth with Holden saying only a handful of words. Now he can’t hide from this conversation the way he has been for weeks. 

“Holden, look at me.” Bill says, gently yet firmly. 

Holden lifts his chin, and scrapes together the flagging bits of his pride before turning his gaze tremulously towards Bill. 

Bill shifts closer, sliding his arm around Holden’s shoulder. 

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” He says, softly. “So tell me if I just did.”

“No.” Holden whispers, “No, it’s not you. It’s me … my own …” 

Bill waits patiently for Holden to articulate. His hand squeezes reassuringly around Holden’s shoulders. 

“You know what you want.” Holden whispers, “And I thought I did too, but I’m … scared.”

Bill nods. “I understand that.”

“Do you?” Holden whispers, fearfully. “I mean, are you going to wait around for me to figure my shit out?”

“Well, I can tell you one thing I’m not going to do - force you into doing something you’re not ready for.” Bill says, “But you have to tell me where that boundary is.”

Holden sighs. “I do want it, though. I’m just not sure what it’s like. I mean, I’ve never slept with a guy before. It’s … It’s-”

“Scary.” Bill finishes for him. “I know. You can ask me whatever you want about it, but it’s honestly not that much different from sleeping with a woman. Obviously, the mechanics are different, but it’s human intimacy pure and simple.”

Holden glances away. Is that what he’s afraid of? Real intimacy, and what it means to expose himself like that? Maybe after one of the few and the last times he’d opened himself to another person and gotten hurt, he’d locked the door and tossed away the key. 

Bill leans back against the couch cushions, and pulls Holden into his arms. In the sunlit afternoon, the television chatters over their silence, but Holden can only hear the gradually easing thud of his heartbeat relaxing into a hopeful rhythm. 

“We don’t have to talk about it right.” Bill whispers, pressing a kiss to his hair. “If you don't want to. We can just lay here, okay?”

Holden nods, and nuzzles his cheek against Bill’s chest. He closes his eyes, allowing the security of Bill’s embrace to slake his worries. He realizes after a minute that he’s not anxious with Bill touching him the way he has been in every other instance, and that’s enough to assure him that they have time to figure out the rest. Somewhere deep in his chest, that locked door is easing its way open again. 


	32. overflow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: i love the headcanon that Holden has autism so could you possibly write one where Holden gets overwhelmed and starts dissociating and bill has to help comfort him and such

It starts with an empty gallon of milk in the refrigerator. 

Holden awakes that morning at exactly 7am with the same amount of anxiety he usually does - distinct, yet tolerable. He gets up, goes to the bathroom, and washes his face. So far so good. Then he goes into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal for breakfast, the next step in his routine. 

The gallon has a few dregs of milk left sloshing at the bottom. He doesn’t remember using the last of the milk, but his memory can be untrustworthy at times. It doesn’t matter if and when he was responsible for the lack of milk; the disruption has already unraveled the rest of his morning. 

He eats the cereal dry because it’s the only option he can think of, and gets dressed in a scattered hurry. After leaving the house and driving several miles down the road, he realizes that the milk fiasco had caused him to forget a few vital steps. Firstly, he can’t recall if he took his medications with breakfast, and second, he isn’t sure whether he locked the door behind him. 

Paralyzed by a sudden wave of anxiety, he drives the rest of the way to work on autopilot without considering turning back. As he speeds through the last intersection on the way to Quantico, the light flashes from yellow to red, and it seems like a bad omen. 

***

When Holden was about twelve, his mother bought him a Rubik’s cube. She thought it might help with his fidgeting and restless hands. For months, he was fixated on solving it, relying on his own prowess rather than hints from online or outside sources to assist him. 

He finally cracked it four months later. After that, he could solve the cube to infinity. He played it so many times that he could memorize the pattern, and he’d learned something about himself inside of the puzzle. 

He needs a pattern, one that never varies. At this point in his life, that pattern begins with a gallon of milk, and today, the Rubik’s cube just keeps spinning out in his head. 

He’s been living with autism long enough to realize when he’s headed into input overload, and that he should probably stop stimulating himself before everything boils over like a pot of water left on a high. That was fine when he was in high school and he could lock himself in his room to get away. It was fine when he attended university, and his roommate stayed out late most nights, leaving the dorm peacefully quiet. It was even fine when he was sequestered in the basement of the BSU, content to objectively look at police reports and crime scene photographs - information that he could easily put down at a moment’s notice. 

Not anymore. He’d assured Ted that he can go out into the field now and do interviews. He can handle it. He can handle his stress. He can deal with the lights, and sounds, and smells of the outside world which had once crippled him to the point of immobility. He’s trained himself to pass as just as neurotypical as everyone else. 

He has to go to work. 

***

The interview is local, giving Holden the opportunity to breathe and prepare himself for the inside of the correctional facility on the drive over. 

Bill is driving, letting the radio play from one muted love song to the next. He doesn’t try to pressure Holden into conversation, which is nice. 

“Mind if I smoke?” Bill asks, pulling Holden from his thoughts. 

“Roll down the window.” Holden says, reminding himself to add, “Please.”

Bill cranks down the window and lights up. He knows Holden dislikes the smell just like Holden knows Bill can’t live without the damn things. 

When they were first assigned as partners, Holden wasn’t quite sure the arrangement would work out. Bill seemed like the typical abrasive, macho g-man who wouldn’t give two shits about Holden’s autism. He looked like the kind of people who had bullied Holden in school for being “weird” and “different.” Everything Holden knew and had learned about “normal” human behavior through extensive self-training told him that the relationship would end in disharmonious friction and more than a few hurt feelings; but, he’d apparently not yet studied enough. 

The second day they worked together, Holden nearly had a meltdown over whether or not he had locked his front door, a recurring anxiety which has plagued him since he’d come home to a break-in several years back when living in D.C. Bill didn’t dismiss his worries or try to placate him with logical suggestions. He grabbed his keys, and said he would drive them back over to Holden’s apartment immediately just be certain. 

The stupid door was locked just as it always is because he’s turns the handle no less than three times just be certain every morning, but Bill hadn’t seemed concerned with the wasted trip only pleased that the positive discovery eased Holden’s panic. 

Then, a few months ago, Bill had casually referred to Holden as “his friend.” 

“Are we friends?” Holden had asked, uncertain. 

“Yes, Holden, we’re friends.” 

He supposes they could have gone another six months with him thinking they were only co-workers if Bill hadn’t made the remark. It’s nice to know he has friends, but sometimes he worries that Bill will get tired of him and his peculiar behaviors eventually. They can go days without speaking or exchanging a text, and it’s always his fault. 

As they pull up to the front of the correctional facility, Holden flinches at the sound of the gate lifting to let them through. 

Bill parks, and turns to Holden. “You good?” 

“Good.” Holden echoes. “Yeah, sure.”

Bill frowns, softly, but nods for Holden to follow him inside. “All right then, let’s go.” 

***

The inside of a correctional facility is the very definition of sensory overload - bright lights, loud buzzers, and prisoners shouting. Holden counts to ten in his head while they make their way down the dank, narrow corridors to the private room reserved for the interview. 

Their subject, Hank Graham, is waiting for them just beyond a heavy, steel door. The man killed three women, and cut off various body parts. This information doesn’t bother Holden. He’s been studying psychology and murder for many years, and it’s what fascinates him. 

The part that bothers him about Hank Graham is how willing the man is to lean into his personal space and try to touch him. Holden doesn’t know what all that is about. He’s good at looking at crimes from a three-dimensional perspective, picking apart it’s pieces, and coming to a natural conclusion of what occurred. He’s still in the learning curve of the “why” part. 

Bill usually takes over once Holden gets past the questions about the process of the murders. He asks the men what they were thinking and feeling during the crimes, a perspective Holden isn’t good at relating to. 

He tries to stick to his portion of the questions as strictly as possible, but Graham continues leaning closer. He slaps Holden on the arm when he starts laughing about how he cut the breasts off one of his victims. 

Holden leaps up out of his chair, his whole body revolting against the contact. There it goes - the boiling water overflowing. 

Bill gets him out of the correctional facility as quickly as possible. They emerge into the muggy summer air, and he stands back while Holden paces, shaking his hands in a desperate attempt to work through the panicked scream in the back of his mind. 

When he calms down, Bill’s brow is set in a scowl. Holden has seen this mood on him enough times to understand that it’s more grave concern rather than anger. He’d spent months trying to figure out the difference on Bill, but now he wishes he could go back to thinking Bill was simply upset with him for his failure. 

“Stop worrying about me.” Holden says, “I have enough anxiety for the both of us.” 

Bill scoffs, and tosses the last of his cigarette to the ground. “I do worry, Holden. With good cause.” 

“I had it under control.”

“Fine, if you say so.” Bill scowls, and motions for Holden to follow him to the car. Let’s go home.”

***

Holden wakes up the following day with what he mentally refers to as a “sensory hangover.” After pushing himself too hard yesterday, he’s all but maxed himself out on new input. And there still isn’t milk in the damn fridge because he’d forgotten about the oversight after his mini-panic attack at the correctional facility. 

Everything feels numb and flat as he gets ready for work, trying to focus on his pattern. He puts on mismatched socks, but doesn’t feel like digging his dresser drawer for a complete set. He remembers to take his medication, and assure himself that the door is locked. 

He’s still functioning as well as he can, but by the time he gets to work, the distance between his brain and reality is starting to grow dangerously long. 

Sitting down at his desk, he tries to focus on the tasks at hand. He barely notices when Bill comes out of his office to get a cup of coffee. 

“Good morning.” Bill says. 

Holden doesn’t look up as he boots up his laptop, and opens a new document to start typing up his notes from the Graham meeting yesterday. The task is going reasonably well when Gregg’s telephone starts ringing. 

Gregg isn’t at his desk. The phone just keeps ringing. 

Holden presses his eyes shut, trying to block out the disruptive noise. His tenuous grip on his senses loosens with every shrill ring of the phone, but he’s motionless in his seat, unable to enact a plan to make it stop. 

The phone stops ringing for the space of what feels like seconds before it starts up again. 

Finally, Holden stands abruptly from his chair. “Where the fuck is Gregg?”

Bill gazes at him from across the bullpen. He has that look again. The worried one. 

Suddenly, Holden realizes that everything has gone blank, a mass of sensation and sound that he can no longer differentiate from one thing to the next. It’s as if someone turned on ten radios at once inside his brain, and tuned every single one to a different channel. 

He feels himself walking away from his desk and toward the door of the basement. He opens the door, walks out into the hall. He knows where he’s standing, but the hallway feels incredibly long and it could have gone on forever for all he knew. It doesn’t feel real as if it’s just an image projecting to infinity inside his brain. 

He doesn’t move until Bill’s hand on his elbow pulls him around. He focuses hazily on Bill’s mouth, forming the syllables of his name and a deliberate, “Are you okay?”

“Are you … are you … are you here?” Holden says, the words struggling languidly from his throat. 

Bill says, “Yes, Holden, I’m right here.”

Holden looks down, and Bill is holding his hand, only it doesn’t feel real. It’s just a dream. But that can’t be right because he’d come into work today, and he saw Bill in the office. Bill followed him into the empty hallway. Bill isn’t dissociating the way Holden is. 

“Stay.” Holden whispers, his voice sounding far away and detached from the static inside his brain. “Stay. Stay.”

“It’s okay, I’m staying.” Bill says. 

He must be squeezing Holden’s hand, rubbing his arm. Bill is tactile and warm like that, and Holden wishes he could feel it right this second. But everything is a blur, a dark room where the light used to be, a fog of noise and sensation that just won’t lift. 

***

Holden comes back to reality after what feels like five seconds. He opens his eyes, and he and Bill are sitting on the floor in the hallway just outside the BSU door. 

“You’re back.” Bill whispers. 

Holden blinks at him, bewildered by the faint smile on Bill’s mouth and the misty gleam in his eyes. Happy or upset? Why do normal people cry over so many different things? Wait, is Bill crying?

“How long was it?” 

Bill checks his watch. “Ten minutes. You’ve never done it for that long before.”

“Not at work.” Holden says, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t apologize.” 

Bill frowns as Holden gets his feet under himself, and stands with a grunt. His backside hurts from sitting on the tile floor. He wonders how far into the episode Bill made him sit down, but he can’t remember anything beyond the telephone ringing and running out of the office. 

“We should get back to work.” Holden says, abruptly. 

He marches toward the door, but Bill clambers to his feet with a quiet protest. “Wait, Holden. Are you okay? Do you need a minute?”

“I’m fine.” Holden says, briskly, yanking the door open. 

He pauses just across the threshold. His brain is still fuzzy, but he has to at least remember his manners. Besides, Bill had been so kind to sit with him. Maybe they really are friends. 

He turns slowly to see Bill gazing at him with a strange look in his eyes. Holden has never seen this look before. He quietly tries to catalogue it in the back of his mind for further inspection later. 

“Thank you.” He says. 

Bill nods. “Yeah, of course.”

Holden goes back to his desk, and sits down in front of his laptop. The last few sentences he’d written are riddled with grammatical errors and misspellings. He draws in a deep breath, and begins again. 


	33. regarding the heavens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: during the atlanta case days holden is just so worn down and he’s been working with other detectives and not bill so when they finally meet at the hotel he just collapses in bill’s arms 🥺

Bill gets to Atlanta at seven-thirty in the morning, giving him just enough time to change his clothes and grab something to eat before the start of the day at the taskforce. The hotel corridors are quiet except for the cleaning staff dutifully rolling their carts from one guest to the next. 

His room is already made up when he arrives. Easing the door shut behind him, he leans against the wall with a low sigh. The four walls of this hotel room are becoming as familiar to him as his own house, only here there’s generic carpet and muted, cold decor, everything stifled and impersonal. No undertone of panic or stress. He can deflate, and stop holding his breath so much. 

Bill rubs a hand over his face as the thought arises.  _ He’d rather be here _ . Surrounded by dead children and indifferent hotel wallpaper, he’d rather be here than home. Jesus Christ, when did things get so bad? 

He drops his bag in the corner, and hits the bathroom before getting himself ready to head over to the taskforce headquarters. He’s looping his tie around his neck when a soft knock at the door interrupts the solitude of the hotel room. 

Bill crosses the room, and the knock comes again just before he grabs the door handle. He yanks the door open to see Holden standing in the hallway. 

“Holden,” Bill says, his brow furrowing as his gaze quickly absorbs the dark circles and the bloodshot, glassy quality of his eyes. His cheeks are flushed, as if he’s been crying. Then Bill notices that his trousers are soaked through and stained with mud. 

“What the hell happened?” Bill asks. 

“We found another body this morning.” Holden says, his voice low and hoarse. “I pulled it out of the river.”

“You did?” 

“Can I come in?” Holden asks, ignoring Bill’s question. 

Bill frowns at him for a moment before standing aside. 

The last time Holden knocked on this door was in the early days of the investigation, before the situation at home exploded and he was forced to hide the truth from everyone on the task force. Their casual, on-again-off-again arrangement has since lapsed into resolute off-again, driven by stress, by secrets, and finally, by anger. After the confrontation by the river, Bill hadn’t expected Holden to show up at his door again, much less ask to come in. He’d figured whatever give and take they’d been enjoying was over, at least until Atlanta comes to an end - a possibility which grows more distant with every day that passes. 

As Holden shuffles just across the threshold, Bill inspects his tremulous profile carefully, and quickly decides this isn’t about something as banal as a hankering for a blowjob, a task Bill could have easily handled. The emotion in Holden’s glassy eyes is much pricklier, a landmine of emotional suffering, of doubt, of fear. Holden’s low moments of despair or panic have always jostled in Bill’s hands like a live hand grenade with the pin pulled free, his course touch indelicate and unskilled at putting out the fires - this moment feels no different than a panic attack in Vacaville. 

Bill lets the door fall shut behind Holden, feeling his chest tighten with worry. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. 

Holden stares blankly at the floor, his eyes misty and unblinking. He smells like the salt and mud of the river, and he’s gently shivering in his soaked through clothes. 

Bill edges closer. “Do you need something from me?”

Holden’s gaze flickers up from the carpet, and he draws in a deep breath. He begins to nod just before the tears well in the corners of his eyes, and his mouth trembles. He takes a staggered step forward, and falls into Bill’s chest with a choked sob. Burying his face in Bill’s shoulder, he draws in a shuddering, tearful breath. 

Stunned, Bill stands still as Holden pushes closer, and gingerly curls his arms around Bill’s waist. Between them,  _ what do you need?  _ falls into a different context than an embrace. It usually ends with one of them on their knees. 

“Holden-” Bill stammers, glancing down nervously at Holden’s head tucked against his shoulder, unsure of how to proceed. 

“Bill, please.” Holden whispers, his voice choked. “I just need a minute.”

Bill presses his mouth shut. He wraps his arms hesitantly around Holden’s shoulders as he feels the lingering hostility between them begin to fade. Holden curls tighter against him, hanging on like this embrace is his last lifeline. His quiet sobs are contained and muffled in the front of Bill’s shirt, but his shoulders shake uncontrollably. Bill can feel his entire body trembling and seizing with panicked desperation, coming harder and harder as the floodgates surge open. Wet heat blossoms across the fabric of Bill’s shirt, absorbing Holden’s tears, his gasping, broken breaths, his smothered whimpers of despair. 

“It’s okay.” Bill hears himself whispering as he holds Holden closer and rubs his palm up and down his shuddering back. “It’s okay.” 

He needs it to be okay. He needs Holden to be okay. While he’s off every weekend trying to keep everything at home from spiraling out of control, he needs Holden to be here in Atlanta level-headed and focused. But maybe he had expected too much of his partner. Maybe, given all he knows about Holden and his emotional stability, he shouldn’t have expected Holden to carry this investigation on his driven yet delicate shoulders. 

Gradually, Holden’s crying eases until he’s quietly clinging to Bill’s waist with his face buried in the wet patch he’d created on Bill’s shirt. The tremors rippling beneath Bill’s hand are subdued between hitched breaths. 

Bill reaches up to gently cradle Holden’s nape, and guide his face back from his shoulder. Holden’s gaze focuses on the carpet as Bill takes in his flushed, wet cheeks and puffy eyes. 

He sniffs quietly, and presses his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I just-”

“Shh, it’s okay.” Bill soothes, wiping Holden’s cheek with his thumb. A stray tear streaks from his eyelashes, getting caught up in the caress. 

Holden turns his cheek into the touch, and lets out a tremulous sigh of relief. He composes himself for a moment before opening his eyes again. 

“I know you can’t be here all the time. But … But I really wish you could be.” He says, his voice raspy from crying. 

Bill swallows hard. The confession echoes something unspoken like  _ I miss you,  _ or  _ I need you.  _

“I’m sorry, too.” Bill whispers. 

“No, don’t be.” Holden says, lifting his gaze to anxiously meet Bill’s. “You have to take care of your family.”

An agreement lodges in the back of Bill’s throat as he absorbs the weight of Holden’s eyes on him, the glassy blue of them like the reflection in a solitary lake under the dome of the vacant sky. They’re looking up at him just the same, as if they’re regarding the heavens, searching for some ineffable answer to their wrestle in the darkness. 

_ Yes, I do have to take care of my family.  _ He should be saying. He should be retrieving his hand from Holden’s cheek, but the dampness of tears clings to his skin, sinking in deeper past superficial layers into blood and bone. There’s some primal sting in their wetness leaking through his shirt into his shoulder, a fiery urge to protect and hold on until the fear evaporates, a magnetic pull that feels nothing like the raw ache for release that they know how to share. 

Holden breathes softly against his cheeks, a low, raspy noise that counts out the seconds of stretching silence between them. His hands nudge hesitantly against Bill’s waist as Bill shifts closer, his fingers sinking into the hair at Holden’s nape. He pulls Holden against him once more, and buries his face in Holden’s neck. 

Holden makes a quiet sound of surprise as Bill’s arms cinch tighter around his waist to drag him in. He rises up onto his toes to meet Bill’s embrace, and slips his arms around Bill’s shoulders. 

Bill inhales the scent of Holden’s throat, the lingering tang of aftershave and a fine layer of sweat over the salt of river water. He closes his eyes, and memorizes the feeling of Holden’s body wrapped around his. He takes this moment - Holden’s trembling weakness and longing for assurance - for himself selfishly, knowing, or rather believing, that it can’t live beyond these few seconds.

When he pulls back, Holden is gazing at him curiously. 

“We should get back.” Bill says, “They’ll be waiting for us.”

He turns to grab at the door handle, frustrated with his lack of composure, but Holden catches him by the elbow. 

“I miss you when you’re gone.” He says, quietly. 

Bill presses his eyes shut, fighting back the urge to turn around now and kiss him hard across the mouth. They don’t kiss and they don’t hug; and Atlanta is no place for these tenderly blooming feelings which seem to have struck him from out of the clear blue sky. 

Still, he can’t stop himself from whispering, “I miss you, too.” 

Holden draws in a hitched breath. “You do?”

Bill casts him a guarded gaze. “Yes, but we both have a job to do. I’ve got my family to take care of.”

Holden nods. “Right. This won’t happen again.”

Bill clenches his jaw, some small part of him flinching at that assurance. He nods, and turns to leave the room. As he strides down to the hall, trying to focus his mind on work, he doesn’t spare a glance backwards. 


	34. tabula rasa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: I’m a sucker for sappy things and I’d love to see you write a little something about the first time they say i love you to each other since they got together

That morning, for the first time in a long time, Bill wakes to the languid hush of a momentary tabula rasa. No cold jolt of reality, no knotted anxiety in the pit of his stomach. No instantaneous fear that a child killer is just one step ahead of them, or that his son is sicker than he can manage. For a few peaceful moments, he can’t remember yesterday or what day it is, only that he’s wrapped up warmly in the bed sheets with the yellow sunlight catching effervescent dust motes sailing in powdery lines above the bed. Only that Holden is in the bed beside him, skin like spun silk to the slide of Bill’s fingertips. 

Reality breaks open like a ripe orange, rubbery rind peeling back to expose a sweet, juicy interior that’s much kinder than he ever thought he deserved. A few months ago, they were in the trenches of Atlanta, pulling bodies from rivers, pushing themselves to the limit. He’d been running back and forth between Georgia and Virginia, tired - always tired - and terribly unhappy. He’d thought his world was crashing down when Nancy left, but he could not have anticipated what came next. 

This morning, glowing in radiant sunlight and the peaceful quiet, Holden is underneath him, his arms stretched above his head and his fingers laced through Bill’s as their bodies move together in a gradual, aching grind of pleasure working deliberately towards its peak. He’s sighing in pleasure, his eyes alight with need and satisfaction, his cheeks like rose petals. His strawberry lips are whimpering Bill’s name when the climax takes him under. 

The freshly minted memory slots in over all the rest, smothering the past in glazed honey. They sink to the sheets, breathing hard, gazes passing back and forth with bashful satisfaction. 

When they’re cleaned up, they languish in bed watching the minutes unfold towards noon. Bill has no desire to get up, and leave the warm relaxation of the bed sheets. 

While Holden snuggles down beside him, Bill props his shoulders against the pillows, and reads a book. In the silence, a chorus of birds chirp outside the window, but the day is otherwise undisturbed. 

Bill lights a cigarette, and smokes it absently until Holden rouses from his lazy, post-coital nap. He props himself up on his elbow, watching Bill smoke intently. Bill tucks his teeth against his lower lip to suppress a smile as he feels Holden’s gaze wander over his face and chest. 

“Yes?” He murmurs, not looking up from his book. 

“Can I try it?” Holden asks, nodding at the cigarette held aloft between Bill’s fingers and bleeding smoke into the air. 

Bill’s gaze wanders from the words on the page to assess Holden skeptically. They’ve been through this conversation - and it’s conclusion - before, but Holden is persistent and a tiny bit self-destructive like that.

“Suit yourself.” Bill says. 

Holden takes the cigarette carefully from Bill’s fingers, handling it like a live grenade. 

Bill tries not to grin as he presses it delicately to his lips, and inhales slowly. His eyes squint as he takes it out of his mouth. There’s a beat of silence before he lurches forward, coughing violently. 

Bill laughs, and turns his gaze back to his book. “Isn’t that what happened last time?”

“Maybe.” Holden says, his voice raspy from coughing. 

“I don’t know why you keep expecting something different.”

Holden sinks back against the headboard, a hand clasped to his chest. The cigarette is pinched between his fingers, mirroring the way Bill holds it, as if he’s bound and determined to make it work. 

Bill holds his hand out for the cigarette, and continues reading. After a moment, Holden still has not given it back to him. Bill wiggles his fingers impatiently, and Holden leans forward; but instead of putting the cigarette back in Bill’s hand, he smears a kiss against Bill’s knuckles. 

Bill cuts a glance over at him to see Holden peeking up at him with wide, coy eyes. He nudges another kiss against Bill’s fingers, working up towards the nails. 

“Can I have my cigarette back?” Bill asks, maintaining a reserved tone. 

“M-mm.” Holden murmurs, kissing his way to Bill’s fingertips and flicking his tongue across the index. 

“All right, I see.” Bill says, tossing the book aside, and swiping his reading glasses from his nose. 

Holden squeals in delight as Bill pounces on him, throwing him to his back against the sheets. He jabs the hand clutching the cigarette above his head in an attempt to avoid Bill’s grabbing fingers, but Bill catches him by the wrist. Pinning Holden’s arm to the bed, he extricates the cigarette from his grasp, and tucks it in his mouth. 

Holden squirms as Bill keeps him pinned down, one leg tucked between Holden’s squirming thighs, his hand fixed around Holden’s wrist. 

“You just want my attention, don’t you?” Bill asks, the cigarette bobbing against his lips and spilling smoke across Holden’s demure gaze. 

Holden bites back a smile, and gives a slight nod. 

“You want me to teach you how to smoke? Open your mouth.”

Holden blinks up at him innocently for a moment before parting his lips. 

Bill takes a slow drag of the cigarette, and leans down to position his mouth over Holden’s. Holding Holden’s enticing gaze, he exhales a slow stream of smoke into his mouth. 

Holden’s eyes slip shut as Bill’s kisses him, and smoke collides in a warm gust from their noses. The taste of nicotine clashes against the slick sweetness of Holden’s lips parting and pliantly accepting Bill’s caress. He presses closer, curling his tongue into Holden’s mouth, sucking at his lower lip, and enjoying the whimpering moan that vibrates from Holden’s throat.

Holden pushes his chin up into the kiss, returning the stroke of Bill’s tongue with his own. His wrist rebels against Bill’s grip, but Bill fixes his grip tighter. With his knee lodged between Holden’s legs, he can feel the gradual pulse of fresh desire emerging. 

The hungry kiss ends with the slick stroke of Bill’s mouth coming off Holden’s pouting bottom lip. He leans back, his breaths scraping heavily from his chest. The rush and tingle in his blood is exhilarating and fierce, a kind of fire that Holden sets in him that can’t be matched with anything or anyone else. 

Holden gazes up eagerly at him, the cornflower blue of his eyes eaten up by swollen pupils. His pink mouth pants quietly, tongue darting against his lower lip, sharp canines flashing eagerly against tender skin. With his flushed cheeks and disheveled hair shining in the soft, morning sunlight, he’s never looked quite so beautiful. 

Bill blinks as the realization strikes him like a wave - not a cold, stormy current, but the warm, sun-dazzled tide on a serendipitous sandy beach. 

Holden’s expression sobers as their teasing wrestle comes to a stop. He swallows hard, seeing the serious glint in Bill’s eyes. 

“What?” He whispers. 

Bill strokes his cheek, and draws in a shuddering breath. Suddenly, it’s hard to inhale, exhale, to think of breathing with this longing gripping his chest, the words writhing around against his breastbone like they’re too big to be contained. 

“I love you.” He whispers. 

In the silence, Bill can hear the click of Holden’s tongue as he swallows hard. His eyes are wide and blinking, the weight of Bill’s confession sinking in. His mouth slips open, this time in subdued awe. Bill can tell that he’s processing it, taking apart those three little words, examining their pieces, putting them back together again in his mind to see if they fit - where they fit inside of him. 

The hesitation burns across Bill’s nerves like fire, and he begins to pull back. 

“Fuck me.” Bill says, mustering a chuckle. “I, uh- … that was- … We’re three months in here and-”

“Bill.” Holden whispers, clutching onto Bill’s cheek to pull him back down. 

Their foreheads settle against one another, gazes connecting into the small, breathless space. His mouth trembles with a smile. 

“I love you, too.”

Bill lets out a choked laugh. His eyes are stinging, but for the first time in what feels like forever, the threat of tears is the product of such expansive joy that it can’t quite fit in the borders of his body. 

“You do?” He whispers, stroking Holden’s cheek. “Good. Good, that’s a relief.”

Holden laughs softly, his forehead nudging against Bill’s. “I do.” 

Bill sinks down into Holden’s kiss, his anxiety melting away into secure belief, a trusting freefall of vulnerability that ends in bathing light and warm satisfaction. That sense of empty memory strikes him again; it’s almost as if he can see the past wiping clean, the time resetting and starting over - starting inside Holden’s eyes. 

  
  



	35. amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anonymous who wanted Holden comforting Bill.

The letter arrives in the mailbox on a sunny Saturday in May, on a morning not unlike every other weekend. 

They woke late and languished in bed for some time before dragging themselves from the sheets to start the day. Bill is cleaning up the breakfast dishes when Holden carries the stack of mail into the kitchen, and starts sorting through the junk and the bills. He pauses when he gets to the plain, white envelope addressed to Bill with a return address in Florida. 

“Do you know someone in Fort Lauderdale?” Holden asks, frowning as he inspects the envelope. 

Bill dries his hands on the towel, and shuffles over to peer down at the letter in Holden’s hands. 

“Not that I know of.”

“It has your name on it.” Holden says, passing the envelope off to him. 

Bill frowns as he rips the envelope open. Inside are two pieces of notebook paper, filled front to back in neat cursive. A slender, gold necklace with a locket falls out of the folds and lands on the table. 

“What’s that?” Holden asks, reaching for the necklace. 

Bill grabs it off the table before his fingers can reach it, and folds it up in his fist. His brow is furrowed, but his eyes are glassy with a mix of conflicting emotions that seem to flash from anger to despair in the space of a second. 

Holden feels his heart sinking down into his stomach as Bill quietly reads the letter. 

“Who’s it from?” He whispers, anxiously. 

Bill doesn’t answer. He slowly walks away from the table, and paces the length of the kitchen as he flips over the first page of the letter to continue reading. The necklace dangles from his clenched fist. 

Holden’s heart stammers. His mind is racing with conclusions, picking up and discarding each one as his mind bounds ahead into the superfluous. Biting nervously at his lower lip, he tracks Bill’s movements around the kitchen until he comes to a standstill on the other side of the table. 

Bill drops the letter to his side, and stares blankly at the tablecloth. His chest rises with a hitched breath. 

There’s a beat of stifled silence before Holden’s burgeoning curiosity builds in his chest, and he whispers, “What is it?” 

Bill drops the letter on the table, and grabs his cigarettes with a shaking hand. Wordlessly, he turns to open the sliding glass door that leads onto the back patio, and steps outside. The door slides shut behind him, leaving Holden brimming with worry and curiosity. 

He hesitates a moment before circling the table to pick up the letter. 

_ Dear son _ , the letter begins. 

Holden sinks down into the chair, his hand pressed to his mouth as he continues reading, unable to put the letter down despite it not entirely being his business. 

The letter is riddled with apologies.  _ I’m sorry I’ve been a terrible father. I’m sorry I was never there. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I never reached out. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  _ Finally:  _ As my life comes to an end, I felt I should offer an explanation and an apology, no matter how inadequate. I’ve tried to make amends with everyone in my life that I’ve hurt, but I know that I’ve hurt you worst of all.  _

The letter ends with a notation that Bill’s dad had been staying in a nursing home in Florida, and he’d gotten one of the caregivers to transcribe the letter in his final days. The locket, the letter stated, had once been a gift from Bill’s mother to him and is one of the only remaining possessions he owns. 

When Holden finishes reading the letter, he drops the paper to the table, and glances around the empty kitchen in disbelief. The few mentions that Bill has made of his father have always been in past tense, leading Holden to believe the man was dead and gone some time ago. He’d never once spoken of his father as if he were still living, as if there were some opportunity for reconciliation between them. And never once had the remarks been positive. 

Holden sits at the kitchen table for a long time, trying to think of the right way to proceed before he gets up to slip out onto the patio. 

Bill slouches in a patio chair with the ashtray on the table close by. One spent cigarette is already mashed in the tray while another dwindles between his fingers, burning itself away like an afterthought. Gaze fixed on the verdant glow of the back yard, Bill doesn’t look up when Holden approaches. 

Whatever Holden had meant to say lodges in the back of his throat as he glimpses the pain concealed in the rigid clench of his jaw and the glare of his misty eyes. He puts a gentle hand on Bill’s shoulder. 

A quiet breeze sweeps across the yard, stirring the trees and bringing in the scent of newly mowed grass from a few neighbors over. Bill’s cigarette burns lower, ashes clumping at the receding tip. 

At last, he crushes the remnants in the ashtray. His head lowers as he draws in a shuddering breath. He seems close to speaking when instead, he slips his arm around Holden’s waist and draws him closer. 

Holden wraps his arms around Bill’s neck, and cradles his face tightly to his stomach. His chest is bursting with pained empathy that’s only slightly relieved by Bill’s embrace, knowing it's but a drop in the bucket against a lifetime of emotional conflict, hurt feelings, and abandonment. 

Bill’s hands climb Holden’s back, and his nails dig past the thin barrier of his t-shirt, clinging on with shuddering desperation. He doesn’t make a sound, but Holden can feel the shiver ripple through his broad, staunch shoulders, the heat of gasping breaths seeping through the shirt and against Holden’s belly. Holden rubs his palm in soothing circles over his back, pressing the most comfort he can offer into the gesture. 

They cling to one another for a long time, until Bill’s grip eases and his shoulders relax beneath the stroke of Holden’s hand. He retreats slowly, his head tilted down towards his lap to conceal the lingering dampness of his cheeks. He draws in a steadying breath, and reaches for his cigarettes again. 

Holden’s chest seizes with a fresh wave of sympathy as Bill’s hand trembles, struggling to work the lighter. The cigarette dangling from his mouth bobs with the frustrated purse of his lips. 

Crouching down beside him, Holden gently takes the lighter out of Bill’s hands. He flips the lid open, and extends it towards Bill’s cigarette. 

Bill’s eyes press shut over lingering moisture and red-rimmed lids, and leans forward to accept the offer. 

Holden strikes the lighter, and the cigarette ignites with a puff of smoke that he inhales slowly, deeply. 

Setting the lighter aside, Holden slides his fingers around Bill’s hand lying limply against his thigh. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. 

Bill squeezes his hand, and turns his face away towards the neighbor’s yard. He drags the cigarette from his mouth, and expels a stream of smoke. 

“I … I don’t want to talk about this right now.” He says, his voice low and hoarse. 

Holden nods. “Okay, we don’t have to.”

“I just … I need a day or two to-”

“I know.” 

They fall quiet again, listening to the wind in the trees. After a minute, Bill tugs on Holden’s hand, and guides him up from the patio stones to his lap. Holden settles down with his arm looped around Bill’s neck, a kiss planted to his temple. He doesn’t move until Bill decides to go back inside. 

Bill folds the letter up and tucks it somewhere in his office along with the locket. They don’t talk about it again for some time. 

~

A day or two turns into one week, then two, then three. While Holden keeps the contents of the letter in the back of his mind, Bill behaves normally, as if his preconceived notions of his father, his history, his world had not just been entirely shattered. While they’re at work, Holden can’t notice the difference, but it’s when they’re at home, in the silence or laying in bed at night, that the subtleties turn into blatant signs. 

He’s quieter than usual, and there’s no joking. When they have sex, he barely looks Holden in the eyes as if he’s ashamed that such vulnerability had been unexpectedly laid bare. He stays up late, smoking and drinking, only coming to bed once Holden has already drifted off to sleep. Though Holden doesn’t pry, he knows that Bill is avoiding the inevitable conversation, the one two men who study human behavior - and childhood trauma specifically - can’t help but have. 

Over three weeks have passed when Holden awakes one night to Bill climbing out of bed, and shuffling across the room in the darkness. His eyelids crack open to glimpse the bedside clock reading 3:35 A.M. The bedroom door creaks open and falls shut again, and he listens to Bill’s footsteps pad down the hallway to the office. 

Holden rolls over onto his back, suddenly wide awake despite the late hour. He vacillates over what he should do for close to ten minutes before he throws back the sheets, and climbs out of bed. As much as he respects Bill’s privacy and all his quiet attempts at working through the revelation about his father alone, he also knows that Bill might never open up on his own. He might hold this grief to his chest stubbornly until it poisons him, too proud to ask for help, and Holden can’t allow that to happen.

Creeping out into the hall, Holden glimpses the yellow light from the office spilling in a narrow seam across the carpet. When he reaches the half-shut door, he eases it open gently with his fingertips. 

Bill looks up from his desk where he’s hunched over a photo album. The locket is dangling from his fingers. 

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” He asks. 

Holden stifles a yawn, and nods. “Yeah, but it’s okay. What are you doing?” 

Bill sighs, and leans back in his chair. “My mother gave me these photo albums when they moved her into the nursing home. She knew she wasn’t coming back out again so we auctioned off all of her things. I took these just to make her happy, you know.” 

Holden wanders closer, wrapping his arms around his middle. 

Bill glances away, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “She was, uh … She was suffering. She wanted to think these albums had something good in them, that she hadn’t wasted her life loving a man who was never going to-”

He cuts off abruptly, drawing in a staggered breath. 

Holden circles the desk, and puts a hand on Bill’s shoulder as he scans the photo album spread open to black and white photographs of a beautiful young woman with raven black hair, intense eyes, and a regal nose. The man situated behind her has an austere haircut and a grim mouth, eyes that snarl rather than regard. Holden can see the resemblance in Bill to both of them immediately. 

“She was beautiful.” Holden says, nudging a fingertip against the headshot of his mother, presumably from college. 

Bill scoffs, quietly. “Yeah. She was a good person too, better than most. She deserved more than my fucking deadbeat father. Why the fuck she ever stayed loyal to him I’ll never know.” 

Holden purses his lips. He’s bursting with questions, but he doesn’t want to pry now that Bill is freely discussing the topic. 

Bill straightens, quickly rubbing away emotion from his eyes with a brisk hand. 

“I know what you’re thinking.” He says, “That the man in that letter was remorseful, that he regretted all the terrible things he said and did to us. That he was only human and I should have some fucking empathy considering the way I’ve handled fatherhood myself - that I should give a damn about him and it’s worthless fucking life.” 

Holden swallows hard. He begins to shake his head. “No, I … I don’t.”

“Sure you don’t.” Bill mutters, “But you weren’t there.” 

“You’re allowed to feel any way you want about it. He was your father, and he hurt you.”

Bill falls silent, his hand pressing to his forehead. His knuckles blanch around his grip on the necklace until his whole arm trembles. 

“It’s okay.” Holden says, bending down to press a kiss to Bill’s nape. “You can tell me. I don’t care how ugly it is, just tell me how you feel.”

Bill lets his fist drop and hit the desk with a frustrated thud. 

“I don’t know, Holden. How the fuck am I supposed to feel? I barely fucking knew him aside from what little I remember from before he left. Then he writes me this fucking letter like we used to have some kind of relationship, like I should forgive him?” 

“You don’t have to.” Holden says, “We both know it isn’t that simple.”

“No, it fucking isn’t.”

Holden bends down to wrap his arms around Bill’s shoulders, and presses his mouth to the side of his neck. Bill sits rigidly still for a long moment before pulling Holden onto his lap. He plants a kiss against Holden’s throat and his cheek, letting the gesture linger until the heat of his anger eases and he’s breathing steadily again. 

Holden nods at the photo album. “Can I look?”

Bill waves a hand. “Sure.”

Propping his elbow on the edge of the desk, Holden flips to the next page in the album. There’s Bill’s mother sitting on the couch, holding a baby in her arms. 

“Is that you?” Holden asks, smiling delightedly. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, pushing Holden’s hand aside to flip a couple pages over. “Look at this. I was an ugly little kid.”

“No you weren’t.” Holden laughs, running his fingertips over the photograph of Bill perhaps five years old, all dressed up in his Sunday best. “You were adorable.”

Bill snorts, “You’re only saying that now because you have to.”

“No, I’m not.” Holden says, scanning the next few pages of school photos and candid snapshots. 

“I never smiled.” Bill notes, “Hated having my picture taken, but Mom insisted.”

“You were kind of a juvenile delinquent, I think.” Holden says, stifling a laugh as he gets to a picture of Bill standing in the yard without a shirt on, his eyes squinted angrily at the camera. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, his tone sobering. “That was after he left.”

The smile fades from Holden’s mouth as he looks over the next few photographs. If he looks close enough he can see the change, the spark of childish mischievousness being taken over by calloused pain and anger that’s far too mature for a child of ten. 

Bill sighs softly as he plants a kiss on Holden’s shoulder. “I never thought about him, you know.” 

Holden peeks over his shoulder. Bill’s voice is softer now, the truth coming through. 

“We used to hear from him occasionally. He would send my mom money sometimes, if he had any. The postmarks were always out of state - California, Oregon, Colorado - but never from the same place once. After I got out of high school and college, the communication petered off. He would call Mom every once in a while, then she’d call me and tell me about it. Finally, I told her that if he didn’t actually want to come around and be a part of our lives, I didn’t want to fucking hear about it. I was probably about twenty-five at the time, and that was the last time until …. Until a couple weeks ago that I paid him any mind.” 

“It’s a lot to digest.” Holden says, “You have every right to be upset.” 

“I just want to know what the old bastard was thinking.” Bill says, “That a fucking letter was going to change everything? Or maybe he just wanted to wreck my life one last time before he kicked the bucket.”

“I doubt that.” 

“I don’t know.” Bill whispers, smothering the wounded tone in Holden’s shoulder. He slips a hand under Holden’s t-shirt, and rubs his fingertips in a concentrated line up and down Holden’s spine. 

Holden closes his eyes as his skin tingles beneath the touch. 

“He wasn’t religious.” Bill says, “He didn’t have any priest to confess his sins to so I guess that task fell to me.”

“Doesn’t it give you a little satisfaction that he was guilty?” Holden asks, “That you went on and lived your life, and he spent the rest of his knowing he fucked up irreparably?” 

“Oh, because my life has been so great?” 

“It is now, isn’t it?” Holden asks, casting a hesitant smile over his shoulder. 

The corner of Bill’s mouth twitches with a smile. His fingers run up over Holden’s shoulder blade to stroke the top knobs of his spine. “Yeah, it is.” 

He drops another kiss on Holden’s neck before drawing a deep breath. “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”

Holden gets up from Bill’s lap, and Bill’s hand slips out from underneath his shirt to latch onto his hand. They leave the office, and slip back down the hallway towards the bedroom, turning the lights off on the photographs and the discarded locket. 


	36. chocolate cake corruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: Alright since it was just recently Jonathan Groffs birthday could we have one where maybe it’s Holden’s birthday I don’t care if there’s fluff angst or all of the above let your writing creativity run wild!

At just a little past five, the sun is already setting over the distant, gray outline of the Beartooth Mountain range. A flurry of snow gusts against the long row of windows that line the backside of the Independence, Montana precinct where Holden is hunched over his desk, typing up his notes on the newest crime scene. 

He’s so intently focused that he doesn’t hear anyone approach until Bill says, “You almost ready?”

Holden glances up sharply to see Bill standing over his own desk a few feet away, gathering up his things. 

“I’m almost done with this.” Holden says, then checks his watch. “It’s not quite five-thirty. What are you in a rush for?”

“Nothing. We just can’t do much today since we’ll have to wait till tomorrow on that warrant.” 

“Okay. This will only take me another ten minutes.”

“Okay.” Bill says, his tone casual despite the flicker of impatience in his eyes.

Holden frowns, and goes back to typing his notes. Fifteen minutes later, they’re both wrapped up in their winter coats, and facing the bitter wind as they cross the street to their car. 

Back at the hotel, Holden assesses Bill from the corner of his eye while they wait for the elevator. He’s not usually one to take an early day or complain about long hours. Holden knows this case is tiring, not only as far physical evidence goes, but also with the weather working against them and the constantly fading daylight of winter hours. Maybe he’s just exhausted.

“What are you going to do tonight? He asks as they step into the elevator. 

The doors slide shut, and the elevator lurches into motion. Bill leans back against the wall with a shrug. “Order room service, get a shower, hit the sack.”

Holden nods, and musters a smile. “Yeah, me too.”

He doesn’t like to say aloud that he misses their alone time when they’re on a case because that would sound incredibly selfish and also a bit foolish. They have a job to do, and just because they’re seeing each other now doesn’t mean he gets to monopolize all of Bill’s spare time. 

They part ways in the hall, and Holden strips out of his work clothes to collapse on the bed. He orders room service - soup and a sandwich which are both mediocre - before getting a shower and sprawling on the bed again. The television plays re-runs of sitcoms and the evening news along with a weather report on the incoming inclement weather conditions, none of which interest him. 

Bored and lonely, he thinks about masturbating, but doesn’t quite feel like taking the effort. He’d have rather stayed late at the precinct working than try to entertain himself through the evening. In the back of his mind, another reason for his disappointment niggles, but he smothers it knowing very well that it’s just as foolish as his longing for Bill’s company. 

Half an hour later, he’s drifting off out of pure boredom when a knock on his door jolts him wide awake again. Sitting upright, he frowns at the door, then shoots a glance at the clock. The hour is creeping closer to eight, and he doesn’t know why anyone would be knocking on his door at this time of night. 

The knock comes again, and Holden climbs off the bed to get to the door. Pressing his eye to the peephole, he sees Bill standing in the hallway. He has a square box balanced in his hand and what looks like a bottle in the other. 

Holden’s heart seizes, first confusion and then building excitement. He pulls the door open, and leans against the door jamb. 

“Hi.” Bill says, struggling to keep a smile off his face. 

“Hi.” Holden says, regarding the cardboard box and the bottle of wine curiously. Though he already has a pretty good idea, he asks slowly, “What is this?”

“Can I come in?” 

Holden leans back from the door, allowing Bill to carry the box and the bottle into the room. While he arranges both items on the desk, Holden shuffles across the room with his arms folded. 

“Is this what I think it is?” He asks, “Because you really shouldn’t have.”

Bill turns to cast him a smile. “Yes, it is. Come here.”

Holden feels his face growing warm as he creeps sheepishly to Bill’s outstretched arm. Bill catches him around the waist, and drags him closer to plant a kiss on his cheek. He reaches down to flip the lid of the box open, revealing a round cake decorated with little pink and purple flowers and icing calligraphy spelling out:  _ Happy birthday, Holden.  _

“Surprise.” Bill murmurs. 

“Oh my god.” Holden says, trying to sound irked. “What did you do?”

“Happy birthday, baby.” Bill says, silencing the protest with a kiss. 

“Since when did I tell you it was my birthday?” Holden asks, leveling Bill with a narrowed gaze. 

“You didn’t. I got into your personnel file.” 

Holden purses his lips over a growing smile. “How long have you known?”

“A couple months. I would have planned something more extravagant, but I figured we wouldn’t be in town.”

“More extravagant?” Holden echoes, his eyebrows rising. “This is too much already.”

“Too much? Holden, you’re turning 30. This is kind of a big deal.”

“Ugh, why do I want to be reminded that I’m turning 30?”

“Stop your belly aching.” Bill says with an amused smile. “I know you want to try this cake.”

Holden casts a longing glance at the cake, and sighs. “I actually really do.”

Bill chuckles. “And the wine.”

“And the wine.” Holden agrees. 

Holden stands back with his arms folded as Bill cuts two generous slices off the cake, and uses the corkscrew on his pocketknife to uncork the wine. He’d also brought a grocery sack with forks, napkins, and plastic cups that he pours the wine into. 

“Sorry we don’t have any real glasses.” He says, passing one off to Holden.

“This is fine.” Holden says, taking a sip of the wine. “I haven’t ever really had a birthday party.”

“What do you mean - ever?” Bill asks, casting him a curious frown. 

Holden shrugs, trying to pass it off nonchalantly. He had planned on sliding past his thirtieth birthday with little excitement or acknowledgement, but Bill had other ideas; and Holden is too caught off guard to lie about it. 

“Ever? Bill repeats, turning to pin Holden with a dismayed gaze. 

“Well, my mom is Jehovah’s witness.” Holden says, “My dad not so much, but he didn’t really have time to argue with her or plan birthday parties because he worked so much.” 

“Jesus.” Bill says, jabbing a plastic fork into Holden’s slice of cake, and nudging it into his hands. “I respect people and their faith, but robbing a little kid of a birthday party - that’s a little cruel.”

“That’s not how she saw it.” 

Bill catches Holden’s gaze just before it drops down to focus on the thick layers of icing on the cake. Holden draws in a deep breath, and cuts into the cake. 

He hadn’t really expected something as silly as birthday to get to him. He’s never considered it before. Maybe it’s a sign that he’s getting to the age where people get to ignore birthdays purposefully or joke that they’re always turning 28. People expect that callous attitude from someone past 30, but he’d never gotten to experience the happy side of celebrating another year of life. 

“Hey.” Bill says, softly. He leans to catch Holden’s lowered chin between his thumb and forefinger, and guides Holden’s gaze up to his. “That ends right here.”

Holden gives a choked laugh. “Bill, it’s okay, really. It was totally normal for me growing up. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Fine. Are you okay with it bothering me?”

“Yeah, be my guest.” 

“Well, then it bothers me.” Bill plants a kiss on Holden’s mouth, and leans back so that their noses are still brushing when he adds, “I appreciate you, and every single year I get to be with you.”

Holden blinks, his eyes suddenly stinging with tears. He holds Bill’s gaze as long as he can, until he feels that admission crawl into his chest and scatter like devastating shrapnel. Setting aside his plate of cake, he wraps both arms around Bill’s neck, and kisses him hard. 

Bill’s plate gets discarded alongside Holden’s as the kiss deepens, and Bill’s hands travel down his body to claim his backside. He hoists Holden’s feet off the ground, and Holden wraps his legs around Bill’s waist as Bill turns toward the bed. He carries Holden across the carpet in a few hurried strides before they tumble to the sheets, entangled in a clinging embrace. 

Holden quickly forgets his tears no matter how joyful. He’s too busy reveling in the feeling of Bill’s hands all over him, his touch climbing into Holden’s willing body and working him open until they can meet at the deepest point. 

Pinning Holden on his belly, Bill crawls between his legs, and thrusts inside slowly, deliberately. By the time Holden comes, his body is open and raw with sweet friction, and his skin is singing from Bill’s hands touching him all over and his mouth leaving burning hickeys down his nape and shoulders. They collapse to the sheets, breathless and satisfied. After several minutes of relaxing and catching their breath, Bill gets up for a washcloth. When he’s done wiping them both down, he brings the wine and the cake to the bed. 

“Five bucks says we can eat this whole thing tonight.” He says, putting the box on the sheets between them. 

“Seriously?” Holden asks, biting back a grin. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, reclining against the pillows with his plastic cup of wine balanced on his chest. “You’re not up to the challenge?”

“No, I think we definitely can.” Holden says, “But we still have to go to work tomorrow. You just fucked me within an inch of my life, and now you’re going to pump me full of chocolate cake and red wine. How am I supposed to function?”

“I don’t know.” Bill says, a roguish smile tilting his mouth. “But it’s your birthday, and I think it’s what you deserve.”

Holden chuckles, and leans over to slide his fork through the corner of the cake. He pops the bite in his mouth, and closes his eyes shut with a satisfied moan. 

“Good?” 

“Really good.” Holden says, slipping his eyes open to peek bashfully at Bill. “I feel like I’m doing something sinful.”

Bill’s eyes glint deviously. “I’m corrupting you with chocolate birthday cake and wine. What would your mother say?”

“Oh, she’d be horrified.”

Bill leans over to dip his fork into the cake. He swallows down the bite, and licks icing from the corner of his mouth. “Any more horrified than the thought of me fucking you senseless?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’d say it’s pretty equal.” Holden says, casting Bill a coy smile. 

Bill laughs, and leans around the cake to press a sloppy kiss to the corner of Holden’s mouth. “Christ, if she only knew.”

“You’re terrible.” Holden whispers, turning his mouth into the kiss. “You’re going straight to hell.”

“Fine, but only if I can take you with me.”

Holden traces his fingertips down Bill’s cheek, sobering as a warm satisfaction disperses in his chest. He’s never felt quite this sinful or alive, and no amount of childhood conditioning to believe otherwise could make him question just how good it feels. 

“What?” Bill asks, softly, seeing the solemn look in Holden’s eyes. 

“I just … thank you for this.” Holden whispers, lowering his forehead against Bill’s cheek. “This sounds dumb, but-”

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

“It didn’t bother me when I was a kid - not having a birthday.” Holden says, “But, I always knew I was different, everywhere I went. My family moved a lot, and it always felt like just as I was settling in and finding friends, we left again. Not having a birthday party or not being able to attend other kids’ made me feel like even more of a weirdo than I already was.”

Bill leans back to study Holden’s downturned face, a worried frown knitting his brow. 

“I haven’t really ever felt like I belonged anywhere.” Holden says, slowly lifting his gaze to peek up at Bill. “Not until now … with you.”

Bill’s mouth trembles with a faint smile. “Good. I want you to be happy.” 

“I am.” Holden murmurs, “Really happy.”

They share another slow kiss, and Holden feels the weight leave his chest. He’s done feeling guilty about them, about cake, about birthdays, about everything else that’s ever made him feel like an outsider. If he’s going down in flames, this is exactly how he would want to go. 


	37. panic button

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from Rococoa: post s2, Bill and Holden get trapped in a confined space together and it turns out Bill's intensely claustrophobic (or any other situation where Bill's faced with a phobia), Holden talks him through a panic attack, and Bill comes away with new empathy and respect for Holden.

The victim’s girlfriend lives in a decrepit, red brick skyrise building in downtown Chicago with ten flights of stairs in between them and her apartment. Though the local police had already questioned the young lady weeks ago, Bill and Holden thought it best to go back over the fine details now that they have more information and they have a few questions the detectives hadn’t thought of. 

Bill warily regards the archaic elevator with the metal fencing that pulls across the rickety metal doors. The space is no more than a five-by-five foot box with laminated particle-board wainscotting and fake gold gilding on the metal panels at the top. The interior smells like stale cigarettes, body odor, and a few other things Bill doesn’t care to identify. 

Holden frowns as he balks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“This thing looks like a death trap.”

“You really want to climb ten flights of stairs, be my guest. I’ll take my chances.” Holden says, entering the elevator without hesitation. 

Bill clenches his jaw, and steps hesitantly into the elevator behind him. Holden selects the button for the tenth floor, and stands back as the doors grind shut with an ominous squeal. The box lurches into motion, and Bill can all but hear the cables protesting as it drags them laboriously towards their destination. 

Lowering his head, Bill braces his shoulder into the back corner of the elevator to support the dizzy sway in his stomach. Anxiety grips the back of his neck in a cold, unrelenting fist as the elevator travels at an excruciatingly slow pace past each floor. A cold sweat breaks out under his clothes, and he shoots a narrowed glance upward at the indicator above the door that lights up as they pass each floor. 

When they finally reach the tenth floor, the doors grind open, and Bill lurches away from the corner to bat the metal caging open. He steps out into the narrow hallway, and draws in a deep breath of air that doesn’t smell like the inside of a coffin. 

“What’s your problem?” Holden asks, bewildered as he passes Bill in the direction of the girlfriend’s apartment. 

“I’m fine.” Bill grunts, “I think it was just something I ate.”

“Okay.” Holden mutters, shooting a skeptical glance over his shoulder. “It’s this way.”

Bill follows him down the hallway to the girlfriend’s apartment. The young lady is home, thankfully, and she answers all of their questions after offering them both something to drink. Bill accepts her offer of a glass of water, and uses it to cool the dry clutch of lingering nerves in the back of his throat. 

Throughout the rest of the conversation, he shoves down the dire sense of panic that had followed him from the suffocating confines of the elevator, and by the time they leave the apartment, he’s gotten himself under control. 

As they approach the elevator again, Bill mentally kicks himself. 

_ Pull it together. It’s a goddamn elevator for twenty fucking seconds.  _

Smothering his nerves, he steps into the elevator ahead of Holden, and leans back against the wall. Holden calmly glances around at the ugly decor and matted carpeting as the doors whine shut again, and the cables protest before dropping them into motion. 

Bill closes his eyes as he feels his stomach drop right along with the jagged inertia of the elevator. The pressure on his temples starts back up again with that inescapable feeling that he’s slowly being carried below the earth into a small, dark space that there’s no way to get out of. 

He shoots a glance up at the floor indicator.  _ Nine, eight, seven, six, five. CLUNK.  _

Bill’s chest nearly explodes with horror as the elevator cables jolt as if it had caught up on something jagged. There’s a brief pause right before the whole death box begins to fall, dropping at a much faster rate than he’s certain is normal. 

He doesn’t have time to panic before the elevator falls through the next four floors in the space of a few seconds and lands with a bone-jarring crash. The impact causes Bill to slide down against the wall while Holden, who had been standing freely in the center of the elevator, falls backwards into him. 

They collapse to the floor with a grunt, and Bill shouts, “Fuck.” 

“Shit. Are you okay?” Holden asks, clambering up from Bill’s lap with wide eyes. 

“Fine.” Bill grunts, dragging himself to his feet. “I told you this thing was a fucking death trap.”

“It went up just fine.”

“Well it didn’t go back down just fine.”

Holden turns to jab at the button to open the doors, but to no avail. 

“Shit.” 

“You can’t be serious.” Bill mutters. “We’re trapped in this thing?”

“Just calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down. You’re the one who said you’d take your chances.”

“You can’t seriously be blaming me for this.”

They stare back and forth at each other for a long moment before he lets out a sigh, and rubs a hand over his forehead. “Fuck. No. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, let’s think.” Holden says, glancing around the elevator. “There must be some kind of panic button.”

Bill’s heart slows down as his brain quickly realizes the fall hadn’t killed them, but the establishing baseline turns out to be something close to a sick, drumming palpitation that’s only a margin calmer. He leans back against the wall again as his chest constricts, the small vein of panic he’d endured on the ride up exploding into a perforated well that floods out every other logical thought. His skin feels cold and clammy even as a wave of heat rolls down his spine, and his breathing picks up. 

“Ah, here we go.” Holden announces, triumphantly, his voice cutting past the dull roar in Bill’s brain. “See, panic button.”

He jabs the red button at the bottom of the floor selection, and the elevator gives out a shrill ring. 

The sound is doing nothing for Bill’s burgeoning panic though he knows it means help might be on the way. 

Holden presses down on the button again. “Someone has to be hearing this.”

Bill feels his knees go weak while the corners of his vision narrow with prickling, black stars. A numb, tingly sensation grips his extremities until he can hardly feel his hands clutching at the grimy wall behind him. His knees go weak, and he sinks down toward the floor before he can give himself another mental kick to pull it together. 

Holden turns around just as he crouches down, a frown knotting his brow. 

“Are you okay?”

“I … I’m fine.” Bill whispers, his voice sounding thready between ragged breaths. 

“You don’t look okay.” Holden says. 

“No, it’s … I’m … I’m-” The words stagger from Bill’s chest, but the breaths are coming too hard, and the sound of his own wheezing gasps are filling up the last bits of logical space inside his brain. His instincts are screaming that he’s dying, or at least suffocating to death very slowly - no amount of mental kicking or assurances could tell him otherwise. 

Bill sinks to his backside on the floor, and braces both hands over his face in an attempt to block out the elevator and it’s small, dingy walls which seem to be closing in on him with every second that passes. 

Holden drops down to his knees in front of Bill, and gently grasps his wrists to pry his hands away from his face. 

“Bill, look at me.” He says, his voice perforating the dull roar in Bill’s mind.

Bill cracks his eyes open. He draws in a hitched breath, but every attempt at catching his breath seems to only result in faster, deeper wheezing. 

“Look at me.” Holden says, pressing closer, “Listen to my voice. You’re hyperventilating. You need to breathe. I know it feels like you can’t right now, but you can do it. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” 

Bill nods, trying to focus on what Holden is saying, but his heart is pounding right out of his chest and he feels close to passing out. 

“That’s it.” Holden encourages softly, “Keep looking at me.”

Bill struggles to pull a breath in through his nose and succeeds in getting a small gasp of oxygen, but his chest quickly collapses again with a painful shudder. It feels like his heart could tear right out of his chest, but that’s the least of his worries. His mind is racing with persistent, terrified thoughts, screaming out from the dark recesses of his brain that he’s going to die. This whole death trap is going to collapse and kill them. 

“Slowly, slowly.” Holden says, his voice soft and deliberate. “In and out, okay? In and out.”

Bill nods, trying to focus on slowing down his breathing. 

“Here.” Holden whispers, tugging on his tie and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. “That’s better. Come on, lean forward.”

Bill wheezes as Holden drags him forward by the elbow to put his head between his knees. 

“Keep breathing.” Holden murmurs, his hand slipping past the lapel of Bill’s jacket to measure the rise and fall of his chest. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Bill closes his eyes, trying to shut out the sense of impending doom the tight elevator walls are giving him. He focuses on Holden’s voice, the gentle touch of his hand. The pressure right above his heart is grounding, pulling the panicked thudding back down into reality, a signpost that this little box isn’t going to kill them. 

“Good.” Holden murmurs as he feels Bill’s chest begin to rise evenly again. “Count them in your head with me. One, two, three, four …”

By the time Holden gets to ten, Bill feels the crushing grip in his chest slowly release, and his brain begins to emerge from the panicked haze. He sucks in deep breath through his nostrils, and exhales them slowly past his lips, relishing the taste of oxygen returning to his lungs. 

He gradually opens his eyes to see Holden kneeling in front of him, his face no more than a few inches away. His eyes, glazed with concern, hold onto Bill’s with a silent sympathy. 

Bill looks down, and realizes he’s clutching Holden’s hand to his chest. He carefully extricates his fingers, and looks away from Holden’s worried stare, ashamed with himself. 

“I think it’s over.” Holden whispers, giving his chest a pat. 

Bill nods, not looking up. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Holden retreats as Bill’s voice hardens defensively. He climbs to his feet, and braces his hands against his hips. 

“If you had told me you’re claustrophobic, I would have taken the stairs. Gladly.”

“I can handle it.” Bill says, pushing his hands underneath of him in an attempt to get up. “Most of the time I don’t have an elevator trying to fucking kill me.”

“Hey, don’t try to stand.” Holden says, putting a firm hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Your body just released a huge amount of adrenaline. You’re going to feel weak and shaky.”

“Holden. I said I’m fine.”

Holden takes a step back, but Bill lapses to his backside on the floor. His mouth feels dry as cotton, and his limbs are jittery with spent adrenaline. 

“Take your time.” Holden says, “You might feel like this for the rest of the day.”

Bill frowns as he watches Holden pace the elevator, his expression reserved yet strained with concern. In the midst of the panic attack, he hadn’t considered Holden’s own struggle with his episodes - his lonely struggle. He’d never been present to witness one of Holden’s attacks, let alone comfort him through it the way Holden had just done for him. 

Bill swallows hard. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Holden rings the panic button again before letting out a weary sigh. He shuffles over to where Bill is sitting, and lowers himself to the floor beside him. 

“I think we’re just going to have to wait it out.” He says, tilting his head back against the wall and glancing over at Bill. “Sorry. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s under control.” Bill says, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. 

Holden crosses his arms over his knees, and stares straight ahead as Bill lights his cigarette and takes a slow drag. 

Bill smokes, casting surreptitious glances out of the corner of his eye at Holden’s stoic profile. His chest squeezes, this time not out of fear or panic. The flinch is more of an ashamed response to his own selfish opinions of Holden and his panic attacks, the way he’d spent weeks viewing it as some kind of personal shortcoming that could have been avoided. 

Finally, Bill lets out a sigh. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“Why’s that?” Holden asks, casting a curious glance over at him. 

“I’ve never … Before today, I didn’t know.” Bill says, quietly. “What you’ve been going through since Kemper and Vacaville.” 

Holden’s gaze drops to the floor, and he purses his lips. “The first time, I thought I was having a heart attack and dying. The second time, I knew that wasn’t true, but it still felt like it. You know, the worst part about having a panic attack is being terrified that it’s going to happen again - over and over again.”

Bill pinches his cigarette harder between his fingers, watching ashes trail faintly towards the carpet. 

Holden draws in a deep breath. “Eventually, you learn to anticipate it, and protect yourself from situations that could trigger one; but it can happen anywhere at any time.” 

“What can you do?” Bill asks, quietly. 

Holden gives a shrug, and morose smile. “Plan for the worst.”

The superintendent and the building handyman arrive fifteen minutes later to pry the doors open. Both men apologize profusely when they realize their ancient elevator had nearly injured two FBI agents. Bill tells them sternly to get the thing fixed or better yet, replace the entire dysfunctional unit. 

Once they’re back out on the sidewalk, he stands still to breathe in a deep breath of fresh, clean air. 

Holden walks ahead of him to the car, seemingly unperturbed by the entire incident. Bill wonders if that just means he isn’t claustrophobic, or if he’s become so jaded that such a stressful encounter barely touches the stratospheric bar of his own panic disorder any longer. 

He catches up to Holden on the sidewalk beside their car. 

“Holden.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Thank you.” Bill says, “It could have been a lot worse.”

Holden musters a smile. “You're welcome. I don’t think you have anything to worry about as long as you stay away from tiny elevators that should have been decommissioned in the sixties.” 

Bill chuckles. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Holden ducks into the car, and Bill slides behind the wheel to drive them back to the precinct. Their conversation turns back to the case as they speed down the freeway, windows open to let in the fresh breeze. Bill figures they won’t talk about it again because that’s what he prefers and he knows Holden respects him; but maybe, in the future, the silent understanding will continue. Bill doesn’t like to be indebted to anyone, and he quietly hopes that he can find a way to repay Holden someday soon. 


	38. every bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: I was thinking of a prompt where Holden doesn't eat when he's stressed out or exhausted; it's just the furthest thing from his mind. Bill notices one day and cooks him a well-balanced meal and makes him eat every bite. Holden is speechless because no one has ever been so thoughtful and kind toward him before.

By five-thirty, the BSU basement is deserted, and nearly everyone has gone home for the day. The single light at Holden’s desk casts muted, white light across the stacks of case files, and the crime scene photos arranged in a neat row at the top of his desk. He has two notebooks - one for victim observations, another for the preliminary profile - and both are filled with three pages of scribbled notes so far. 

They’d arrived back from a two-week long consult in Texas early this morning, and he’d been greeted with a stack of new requests that had accumulated during their absence. Keen on tackling the mountain before it grows any larger, he’d buried his head in profiles for the better part of the day, stopping once to eat some chips from the vending machine when the growling in his stomach became too incessant. Several hours later, the thought of eating has tapered off to a dull hum in the back of his mind. 

Holden is so engaged in the profile that he doesn’t hear Bill approach until a hand on his shoulder jolts him out of his pensive reverie. 

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Bill says as Holden leans back in his chair, clutching at his chest. 

“It’s okay.”

“You almost ready to leave?” Bill asks, shooting a pointed glance at his watch. “It’s getting pretty late.”

“I’m almost done with this.”

“Are they expecting it back tonight?”

“No.”

“Then it can wait ‘til tomorrow.” Bill says, giving Holden’s shoulder a nudge. “Come on.”

“I’m this close.” Holden says, pinching less than a half inch of space between his thumb and forefinger.

“You haven’t moved from this desk all day.” Bill says, gently taking Holden’s pen out of his hand and setting it aside. “Have you eaten?”

Holden starts to nod, and Bill casts him a stern frown. 

“Other than vending machine snacks?”

Holden purses his lips, gathering an irked glare. “No, but it’s fine. I’m not that hungry.”

Bill shakes his head, and silently begins putting all of the crime scene photos back in the folders. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Holden asks.

“Making you give yourself a break.” Bill says, snatching the two notebooks from in front of Holden and flipping them shut. 

“I wasn’t done with that.”

“Holden.” Bill says, firmly, “This is not up for debate.”

Holden narrows his eyes. “Are you seriously pulling rank on me?”

“I’m saying this as someone who cares about you, not your superior, but if you want to see it that way, sure.” 

Holden tries to hold onto his scowl as Bill tosses aside the folders, and pulls him up from his chair by his hands. 

“We just had a very long two weeks.” Bill says, his voice softening as their eyes meet. “You need to give yourself a minute to breathe every once in a while.” 

“Bill…” Holden says slowly, a coy smile creeping at the corner of his mouth. “Is this because we didn’t have time to have sex the whole time we were away?”

Bill sighs, his brow curling with an indignant frown. “No.”

“I’m horny, too, but we have a job to do.”

“Yeah, one you can’t do when you haven’t eaten all day. Now come on. I’m taking you home.”

Holden doesn’t protest again as Bill leads him out of the basement. As they walk across the parking lot to the car, the faint tremble in his knees and the ache in his stomach emerges from the hazy focus on work that he’d been clinging onto. He doesn’t want to admit that Bill is right, so he keeps his mouth shut as they speed down the highway towards home with his stomach growling the entire way. 

Once they get home, Holden strips out of his work clothes and tosses them in the hamper while Bill goes into the kitchen. In his pajamas, he shuffles down the hallway to where Bill is rifling through the refrigerator and pulling out ingredients. 

“We could just order out.” Holden says. 

“What? Pizza?” Bill says, glancing past the refrigerator door with a disapproving glance. “I don’t think so. You need real food.”

“It is real food. It’s just not very healthy.”

“Exactly.” 

Holden wanders further into the kitchen, scanning the items Bill has placed on the counter. 

“What are you making?”

“You’ll see.”

“Can I help you?”

“No.” Bill says, “Go get a shower and lay down. I’ll get you when it’s ready.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

Bill pushes the refrigerator door shut, and leans over to plant a kiss on Holden’s protesting lips. “Let me do this. Okay?”

Holden holds up a defeated hand. “Okay. Fine.”

He retreats from the kitchen, and goes to the bathroom to get a shower like Bill had suggested. As he stands under the hot spray of the water and feels the tension begin to unwind from his shoulders, a wave of exhaustion washes over him. Every time they go on consult, they spend so much time on the ground that they don’t get very much sleep. He’s almost used to it by now, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling the impact - like some kind of bad hangover - whenever they get back into their own timezone. 

By the time he finishes showering, a small whiff of the aromas wafting from the kitchen makes his mouth water and his empty stomach spasm with hunger. Tired and weak, he lays down on the couch, and lets his eyes slip shut. 

It feels like the space of a second, but when Bill nudges him awake, Holden realizes that a half hour has passed. 

“Come on.” Bill urges, dragging his docile limbs up from the couch, “Dinner’s ready.”

Holden leans into his arms, and rubs his hands over his face to dispel the haze of sleep. Stifling a yawn, he climbs up from the couch, and follows Bill into the kitchen. 

“Wow, this looks amazing.” He murmurs, as Bill sits him down at the table in front of his plate filled with bread chicken, Spanish rice, and roasted broccoli. 

Bill sits down next to him, and puts his arm across the back of Holden’s chair. “You wanna try to tell me again how you aren’t hungry?”

Holden casts him a limp smile as he picks up his fork and knife. The first bite of the chicken is juicy and savory, just enough salt against rosemary and thyme. A satisfied groan rises in the back of his throat as he chews and the flavor washes across his tongue and down into his empty stomach. 

“Good?” Bill asks, bemused. 

“So good.” Holden says, “When did you get to be such a good cook?”

“My mom taught me a few staples.” 

“Mmm.” Holden mumbles as he tucks a bite of rice and broccoli in his mouth. “I’m impressed.”

“But are you hungry?”

Holden shoots him a begrudging glance. “Yes. Starving, if you have to know.”

Bill chuckles softly, and rubs a hand over his back. “That’s what I thought.”

Holden continues eating, wrapped up in the satisfying sensation of the savory meal hitting his stomach. He’s halfway through his plate before he realizes that Bill isn’t eating, only sitting at Holden’s side watching every bite go into his mouth. 

“Aren’t you having some?” Holden asks, pausing to take a sip of water. 

“In a minute.”

Holden blushes as Bill’s gaze clings to him, observing his unreserved chewing with a crooked smirk and a pleased glint in his eyes. 

“Is this some new kink?” Holden murmurs, lowering his eyelashes. “Watching me eat?”

“No, I just want to see you taken care of. I have to do it since you won’t do it for yourself.”

Holden cheeks grow hotter, and he quickly tucks another piece of chicken in his mouth to rush past the sudden flash of vulnerability he feels under Bill’s scrutiny. They’ve exchanged raunchier words in the bedroom without him feeling this exposed; but no one has ever done something like this for him before - not just cooked him dinner, but made sure he ate every bite, and stuck to the task like it was some honor-bound duty. 

“What’s the matter?” Bill asks softly as Holden lowers his head and rubs a quick hand over his eyes. 

“Nothing.” Holden whispers, leaning over to hide his face in Bill’s shoulder. “Nothing. I just .... thank you. This tastes really good.”

“You’re welcome.” Bill says, curling his arm around Holden’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

Cradling Holden’s cheek in his other hand, he tilts his chin up into a soft kiss. His thumb strokes along Holden’s cheek and against the corner of his eye, smearing the faint remnants of moisture. 

“I had no idea my cooking was  _ that  _ good.” He murmurs.

“It is.” Holden says, nudging another kiss against the corner of Bill’s mouth. “I think I want to marry you, and let you cook for me every night.”

Bill’s soft chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest. “Is that right?”

“Yes. And maybe breakfast too.”

“If you’re lucky.” 

Holden smiles into another slow kiss before Bill pulls back, and waves a finger at his plate. 

“Okay, keep going.” He urges. “I want to see you eat every bite.”

“Yes, sir.” Holden murmurs, sitting up straighter to take up his fork and knife again. 

Bill’s hand absently rubs Holden’s shoulder as he finishes the rest of his food, and washes it down with a gulp of water. 

“Ah, I’m stuffed now.” Holden says, leaning back and stretching his belly. 

“Time for bed, I think.” Bill says, smiling fondly as Holden stifles a yawn. He rises from his chair, and urges Holden to his feet. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”

As soon as Holden crawls into bed, his exhaustion immediately overcomes him. He collapses into the familiar warmth of the sheets with a contented sigh.

Bill drags the covers over him, and sits down on the edge of the bed to nestle them under his chin. 

“Aren’t you coming?” Holden murmurs, sleepily. 

“In a bit.” Bill says, bending down to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it, okay?”

Holden nods, too tired to argue or agree. He’s already falling asleep by the time Bill turns off the bedside lamp, and drops one last kiss on his temple before sneaking toward the door. 

“Bill?” Holden whispers into the darkness.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Go to sleep.”

The door eases shut, and Holden sinks down against the pillow with a happy hum. He never sleeps well when they’re out of town on consult. His mind is always racing with details of the case and plans of action, and he thinks he’ll never get a good night’s sleep again. It isn’t until he’s home that his body and brain realize again that he’s safe and cared for, that he can drift off to dreams without worrying about someone else dying. This time, it took less than a day for that relief to flood his veins, and he knows it didn’t have anything to do with the dent he’d valiantly tried to put in his overflowing paperwork today. With dinner warming his belly, Holden quickly falls asleep feeling happier than he’s ever been. 


	39. dreamland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: Holden gets badly shot during a run out or some sort of hostages situation, him and Bill have been seriously involved for quite some time and Bill looses his sh** thinking he could have lost Holden for good. He basically moves in in Holden's hospital room and keeps working on their cases, waiting for him to wake up. Bonus points for Wendy being an amazing friend ❤️

It’s only been two days, but the monotonous beep of monitors and the thinly padded chair are already becoming routine fixtures to Bill’s subconscious. He’s already used to working in low light being a basement all day, and the dimmed lamp above the hospital bed doesn’t bother him. In fact, this quiet wing of the hospital offers more privacy and focus than being at work ever would have; no interns with questions, no ringing phones, no chattering typewriters, and no impending shroud of doom that hovers over his shoulders when Holden is out of his sight for more than a minute. 

The doctors had spent a lot of time trying to reassure him that Holden’s condition has stabilized despite his most unresponsive state.  _ The body shuts down to protect itself when injured; he should come out of it in a few days.  _ They had said it like this situation is routine, as if it happens every day and as if Bill should have nothing to worry about; but they weren’t there when Bill watched the gun fire and Holden fall. They hadn’t clasped their hands over his wounded chest, and feared for his life. 

So, despite their assurances - and the mounting questions from Ted and everyone else at work - Bill had taken up residence here in Holden’s room, promising to both himself and Holden that he wouldn’t be leaving until the coma lifts. When he sees Holden’s eyes open, that’s when he’ll relax. 

For now, he has the crime scene photos for the current profile he’s working on lined up in a neat row on the sheets right beside Holden’s leg. Even when he isn’t looking directly at Holden, he can glimpse the rise and fall of his chest, the only positive sign right now that’s keeping Bill from losing with mind with worry and panic. 

A tap on the door draws Bill’s attention from the profile and Holden. 

Wendy slips into the room, carrying a messenger bag over her shoulder. 

“Hi.” She says, keeping her voice low. 

“Hey.” Bill says, setting aside his notebook to rise from his chair. 

She gives him a brief hug before leaning back to scan his weary expression. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine.” Bill says, “They’re feeding me here so I can’t complain.”

She chuckles, softly. “That’s good to hear. And Holden?”

“No change yet.” Bill says, glancing over at Holden’s prone body and closed eyes with a painful squeeze in his chest. “They keep saying he could come out of it at any minute, but …”

“He will. He’s stubborn.”

Bill scoffs, “Yeah, no shit. That’s the reason we’re in this situation.”

Wendy gazes at him compassionately as he sinks back down to the chair, and rubs both hands over his face to dispel the weight of exhaustion. 

“I just keep going over it in my mind.” Bill says, “We weren’t even on duty. Why didn’t I stop him?”

“There was no time.” Wendy says, “You told me it happened very quickly.”

“He always has to be the smartest guy in the room.” Bill says, shaking his head. “Play the fucking hero. It was a robbery. He should have just let the guy walk out with what he wanted.”

“Someone’s life was being threatened.” Wendy says, nudging aside the crime scene photos to ease down to the edge of the mattress. “In that moment, Holden did the only thing he could think of - the thing he was taught to do. Negotiate for the victim’s life.”

Bill drags a hand over his stubbled jaw, and fixes his tired gaze on Holden’s lax face. Right now, he’s too terrified to be angry, but the moment this is all over, Holden is in for an earful about why he should have never attempted to stop a fucking bank robbery of all things. 

“You can’t beat yourself up over this.” Wendy adds, “Think on the bright side. The victim lived, the perpetrator was caught-”

“Yeah, and Holden winds up in a hospital bed fighting for his life. I would have rather let the bastard take off with the cash.”

“And if he had actually shot the teller?” 

“Fuck, I don’t know, Wendy. Most bank robbers don’t turn into killers. Holden should have known that.”

Wendy nods, lowering her head. “We both just have to keep believing that he’s going to be okay.”

“I suppose you’re right. Negativity won’t help anything.”

“Right.” Wendy says, lifting the messenger bag and flipping it open. “I have a special delivery. A change of clothes, and three new requests. Do you think you can look them over?”

“Of course. I’ve got nothing but time.” Bill says, “You can take these ones back that I finished.” 

“Great. Thank you.” Wendy says. 

As they exchange case files, Bill clears his throat. “So, um … what’s the general consensus?”

“What? At work?”

“Yeah. You know, about all this …”

“I think they’re just worried about Holden. And they know you’re a loyal partner.”

Bill bites the corner of his lip. “You can be honest.”

“Well, Ted is less than pleased, but I’m holding him off for you.” Wendy says, “I think as long as you continue working on the profiles I bring you, he’ll be placated.”

Bill nods, and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “I just can’t leave him, Wendy. I know how this looks, and we’ve tried for the past few years to be discreet; but this-”

“Bill, you don’t have to apologize to me. I’ll keep covering for you at work, as long as you need.” 

Bill glances up to meet Wendy’s gaze. Her eyes are gentle and compassionate in the low light, holding a sympathy that neither of them can quite verbalize. 

“If it was my significant other in this bed, I would do the same thing.” She adds, softly. 

He nods, trying to push down the emotion in his chest. 

“I’ll get out of your hair.” She says, gently touching his elbow. “Try to get some sleep tonight, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Wendy.”

He walks her out into the hallway where they exchange their goodbyes. He shuts the door behind her, giving himself some privacy when he goes back to Holden’s bed. Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, he takes Holden’s limp hand between both of his own palms, and lifts Holden’s soft, warm fingers to his mouth. 

Holden barely stirs, and if it wasn’t for the hospital gown and all the tubes and needles, he would look as if he were only dreaming. 

Bill leans over to kiss his temple and cheek, and finally his lips. 

“I love you, you know that?” Bill whispers, opening his eyes to scour Holden’s lowered eyelids for some sign of movement or response. “Christ, why did you have to do something so fucking stupid?”

Holden’s brow creases softly, almost as if he had heard the jab. 

Bill sighs wearily, and runs his thumb across Holden’s cheek. “Is it really selfish of me to wish he’d shot the teller instead of you?”

Holden doesn’t wake up just then, but he does come out of the coma a day later just as the doctors had predicted; and when he does open his eyes, Bill is right beside him, never more relieved and overjoyed to see the cornflower blue, like a night sky at dusk, than he is right then. Months later, when Holden is nearly recovered, they’re at the bank again - the same bank where he’d nearly lost his life over a few thousand dollars in cash. He nods at the teller who is sitting at the window a few rows down from them. 

“Is that the girl?” He asks, under his breath. 

“What girl?”

“The one who wished the suspect had shot in the head instead of me?”

Bill tries to scowl or at least offer a retort; but all he can do is laugh in disbelief, and wonder what else Holden had heard down in the clutches of dreamland. 


	40. tingles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: after working many weeks on a case, holden starts to slowly forget about self care, especially his hair. it gets long and curly and bill doesn’t want him to cut it off

A few years ago, before Atlanta, Holden had done what he considered a fair job of looking after himself while they were out of town on consult. Jogging every morning in the new city, feeding himself three full meals, showering every day, shaving, getting his hair cut - all basic necessities of self-care that didn’t seem that hard when he had the time that are now pesky tasks which quickly fall to the bottom of his priority list. It’s not that he doesn’t care how he looks - in fact, when they aren’t so busy, he cares quite a bit - but when they’re plunging into their third out of town consult in a row, getting his hair trimmed just doesn’t seem like a priority. 

In all, over the course of the three cases, he and Bill spend a little over six weeks out of town. When they finally get a chance to come home and take a week off from being out of town, Holden quickly realizes just how much he’d let himself go over the past several weeks. 

He comes back from his morning run - the first in over five weeks since he’d managed to maintain the first week out of town before letting it slide - and he’s completely out of breath and exhausted. He immediately goes into the bathroom to get a shower, and notices that his hair is a disheveled mess, moreover that it’s gotten much longer than he’s ever let it go in the past several years, so much so that the natural, wavy curls are returning to the ends. 

Bill is up out of bed and making breakfast by the time Holden finishes in the shower. He glances up from the stovetop where he’s scrambling eggs when Holden enters the kitchen and goes straight for the coffee pot. 

“How was your run?”

“Hell.” Holden says, “I don’t think my body was naturally meant for exercise.”

Bill chuckles, “You’re telling me. If I tried to run a mile, I might end up in the hospital.”

Holden pours a steaming mug of coffee and stirs in sugar and cream before turning around to brace his hips against the counter. 

Bill leans over to give him a kiss, his fingers stroking stray, damp curls back from Holden’s forehead. 

“That’s another thing I let go.” Holden says, scraping a hand through the locks of hair at his nape. “I really need to go get my hair trimmed.”

“It’s not so bad.” Bill observes, “I had no idea it was this curly.”

“It just gets all thick and tangly.” Holden says, “It’s not that great.”

Bill shrugs. “I think you look good no matter what.”

He goes back to cooking without commenting on it further, but later in the day, when Holden suggests they go out so he can drop into the barber, he complains that he’d rather stay home on their first day back. Holden acquiesces, not thinking any more of it. 

The next morning, Holden sleeps through the alarm that was meant to wake him for his run. Either that, or he subconsciously turns it off and snuggles back below the sheets. He wakes up a few hours later to sunlight pouring past the curtains, and the clock reading a little past ten. His body feels like a lead weight, sinking contentedly down into the warm cocoon of the sheets and Bill’s body curled up behind him. 

His eyes struggle open as awareness trickles across his senses, and the position of Bill’s chest against his back sharpens into warm satisfaction. A light tingle wanders across his scalp and down the back of his neck as Bill’s fingers stroke absently through his hair, carding it back away from his ear, combing it loose, and winding around the soft curls. 

Holden hums a pleased sigh from the back of his throat as he turns his head to glimpse Bill propped up on his elbow behind him, watching him adoringly. 

“‘Morning.” Bill murmurs. 

“Good morning. Are you playing with my hair?”

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.” 

Bill’s mouth tilts in a rueful smile as he continues combing his fingers softly through Holden’s hair, applying just enough pressure with his nails across his scalp to rouse delicate tingles. 

“I have to take advantage.” Bill says, winding his index finger around one loose curl.

“Of what?”

“You.” Bill murmurs, bending to press a kiss against Holden’s nape.

The damp press of his lips encourages the warm tingles washing down Holden’s spine, and he arches delightedly into the pressure. 

“Before you bound out of bed to go jogging and cutting your hair.” Bill adds, his mouth separating from Holden’s neck but gusting soft breath against his skin.

Holden frowns, shunting Bill a curious gaze. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

Bill shrugs, focusing on the bronze gleam of Holden’s curls falling through his stroking fingers. 

“It does give me more leverage to pull on.” He says, offering a quiet chuckle. 

Holden rolls his eyes. “Is that all it is?”

Bill’s fingers start at his nape and stroke upward, against the natural grain of Holden’s hair, evoking an intense wave of tingles that effectively silences Holden’s sarcasm. His mouth slips open in a pleasured sigh, and he tilts his face down into the pillow to give Bill’s fingers more room to work.

Stroking the hair back from Holden’s nape, Bill lines the sensitive border of his hairline with slow kisses, encouraging the warm hum buzzing down his spine to continue. Meanwhile, his fingers keep stroking, carding through Holden’s hair at a slow, deliberate pace. He tugs gently at the crown, just strong enough to make the tingles explode all the way down Holden’s spine and past his groin. 

Holden purses his mouth over a whimper, trying to cover exactly how much he’s enjoying the treatment. He’d spent most of his childhood enduring bad hair cuts to cover up the curls, or fighting with the knots if it got too long. Up until this very moment, he’d firmly believed that they were nothing more than a nuisance, but the gradual comb of Bill’s fingers through the lengthening strands is starting to shake that notion loose. 

Bill’s mouth comes up from his neck for a moment, letting him recover for barely a second. 

“I know it can’t stay. Dress code and all that bullshit.” He murmurs, “But I don’t hate it.”

“No, I think you love it.” Holden says, his voice muffled in the pillow.

Bill chuckles softly. His fingertips graze along the backside of Holden’s ear, and his shoulders rise instinctively against the sensitive tickling. The sensation is only exacerbated by the press of Bill’s mouth against the back of his neck. 

Suddenly, Bill leans back, divesting Holden of the general, humming tingle planting itself in his spine and low in his belly. He gives up a soft complaint. 

“Why are you stopping?”

“You want me to keep going?”

“Yes. Please.” Holden says, shooting a sheepish glance over his shoulder. 

“Oh, so you don’t exactly hate it either?” Bill asks, brushing his fingertips up against Holden’s nape, and tugging softly at the curls nestles there. 

“It can stay. For now.” Holden allows. 

Bill’s fingers sink back into his hair while the other hand wanders down his spine, and the tingles erupt from a gradual, soothing sensation into something hotter. Holden closes his eyes, and doesn’t argue again. 


	41. lakeside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: their first summer together. holden used to just keep working (he had nothing else to do) but bill, used to the little family getaways and other summer activities, notices holden gets anxious having nothing to do so he tries to take his mind off it!

A mellow, warm breeze shifts across the yard and into the serene shade of the back patio where Bill slouches with a cigarette dangling lazily from the corner of his mouth. He’s halfway through his morning cup of coffee, and at just a little past eight-thirty, the neighborhood is still languishing in subdued silence except for the chirp of birdsong. The weekend stretches out in front of them, two promising days of no work or stress. 

It’s the first perfect day of the summer, low seventies, just a little overcast - the right day for the golf course or fishing. Last year, he would have already been headed out to pursue one of those solitary activities, but today, Holden is still sleeping in his bed, exhausted from the long work week. He has a way of pushing himself to his limits both mentally and physically, Bill thinks; but now that they’re seeing one another, maybe he can convince Holden to relax every once in a while. 

Bill sits up straighter in the patio chair when the sliding glass door eases open, and the object of his thoughts appears. 

Holden creeps out onto the patio in his pajamas, his hair all disheveled and his eyes still bleary with sleep. 

“‘Morning.” Bill says. 

“Good morning.” Holden says, stifling a yawn. “What are you doing?”

“Just enjoying the morning. You want some breakfast?”

“I’m good right now.” Holden says, crossing the patio to take the chair beside Bill. “It’s a nice day.”

“I was just thinking we should take advantage of it.”

Holden frowns, his eyes squinting against the morning sunlight. “How?”

“It’s the perfect day for golf or fishing. A little overcast, not too sunny, not too hot.”

“I don’t know how to do either one of those things.”

“I can teach you.”

Holden shrugs, “I was thinking about stopping back into the office. There’s some paperwork that I-”

“Holden.”

“What?”

“It’s summertime.” Bill says, waving a hand at the sunlit splendor of the yard. “School’s out. You’re supposed to relax and have fun.”

“We’re not in school.”

“Not the point.” 

Holden pulls his knees up to his chest, and folds his arms over his knees. Leveling Bill with a curious stare, he says, “So, you’re not going to let me just pop in and grab some things-”

“And let you squander the first nice day of the summer? I don’t think so.”

“Fine.” Holden sighs. 

Bill takes a drag of his cigarette, and scans the puffy clouds floating serendipitously across the blue skies. 

“When’s the last time you took a vacation?” 

“I don’t know.”

“I think we need a vacation.” Bill says, “Nancy and I used to try to go on vacation at least once a year, usually during the summer like this. Lake Kerr has the best crappie fishing here in Virginia. I think you’d enjoy yourself.”

“Sitting around for hours on the shore with a fishing pole in the water, waiting for something to bite?” Holden asks, his brow pinching. “Sounds thrilling.”

“There is a lot more to fishing than that.” Bill says, “We could rent a boat, get out on the lake. You can sunbathe and read a book if you want.”

Holden drops his feet from the chair, and saunters over to straddle Bill’s lap. Bill sets aside his cigarette so that he can wrap both arms around Holden’s waist. 

“So, in this vacation scenario, I’m sunbathing in a speedo?” Holden asks, eyebrow cocking bemusedly. 

“I didn’t say anything about a speedo.”

Holden’s mouth curls coyly, and Bill can tell he’s coming around to the idea despite his resistance. “Sounds like you want me to be your little housewife while you fish.”

“I said I’d teach you.” Bill murmurs, leaning forward to kiss Holden slowly on the mouth. “Unless you prefer playing the housewife.”

Holden chuckles into Bill’s kiss, then leans back to smile softly, his eyes sobering. “I just want to be wherever you are.”

Bill’s arms cinch tighter around Holden’s waist as warmth floods his chest. He nods, trying to manufacture a nonchalant tone despite the burst of overjoyed emotion. 

“Is that a yes to vacation, then?”

“It’s a yes.” 

~

Holden endures Bill’s primer on the basics of fishing during the three-hour drive from Fredericksburg to Lake Kerr, giving his best effort at sounding interested. In the back of his mind, he sees the mountain of paperwork on his desk growing, the calls rolling in, the requests from local precincts multiplying. He’d left his current profile in Gregg’s hands. It only needed finishing touches before being sent off, but Bill had barred him taking anything work-related on their trip. 

Holden had told him that he doesn’t remember the last time he went on vacation, but that hadn’t really been the truth. He does remember. It was seven years ago when he was just coming back from Chicago and starting his job with hostage negotiation. Somehow, his mother had talked him into a family get-together in Milwaukee. Everyone chipped in to rent a house on Lake Michigan.

Holden, who hadn’t gone back home for the past few years while he was working in Chicago, spent most of the trip feeling awkward, anxious, and judged. His brother and sister had both gotten married and had children by that point, as had most of the cousins. Some of the nieces and nephews had steady dates. It was embarrassing, being shown up by a sixteen year old. 

Needless to say, he hadn’t attempted any kind of vacation since then. Work had taken priority over everything else, and he hadn’t found an issue with that mindset - until now. 

Once they arrive at their rented cabin, Bill suggests they go grab lunch, pick up any necessities at the store, and then hit the lake for the rest of the evening.

A little lakeside diner a few miles from their cabin offers burgers, sandwiches, hotdogs, and a variety of other comfort foods all served on a wooden pier that stretches over the water. The robin egg blue umbrella over the table matches the sky and screens off the warm sun as they share a basket of curly fries. 

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Bill asks, his face turned toward the gleam of the water. 

“Yeah.” Holden murmurs, scanning the lake with its many peninsulas and inlets where numerous boats and cabins offer a pleasant getaway to vacationers, most of whom are families with kids. 

“Holden,” Bill says, his tone only slightly chiding. “Take a few deep breaths for me, okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re still thinking about work. I can tell.”

“I’m sorry.” Holden says, casting him a brief smile. “It’s just going to take a few days to unwind.”

“I know. Try to relax, breathe in some fresh air.” Bill says, waving a hand through the calm breeze rolling in across the lake. “Everybody has to take a vacation at some point. Even us.”

“Don’t you worry about the two most senior members of the department being gone for a whole week?”

“Wendy assured me they’ll be fine. That’s good enough for me.”

Holden nods, and turns his focus to his sandwich. 

Later that day, they walk down to the marina where the rental boats gleam white-washed under the sun, bows bobbing against the incoming tide. Bill pays a small fortune to rent one for the rest of the evening, and they climb aboard with an armload of fishing poles, tackle boxes, and a cooler with water and beer. 

Once they get out past the middle of the lake and into one of the many shaded coves, Bill cuts the engine and starts rigging up the fishing gear. 

Holden watches him with his chin propped on his knuckles. Bill had explained the reasoning for the numerous different types of rods and reels on the drive down, using a lot of lingo that Holden hadn’t retained in the slightest. 

“Which one is mine?” He asks as Bill ties off the last lure. 

“This one.” Bill says, handing over the rod. “It’s a bobber. Really easy. As soon as you see it dip below the water, you know you have a bite.”

“So you’re basically giving me a rod for a ten year old.”

“Basically.” Bill says, casting him a wink. 

“Remind me why this was a great idea.” Holden says, taking the rod to the edge of the boat and peering down into the water. 

“Relax. It’ll be fun. I said I’d teach you, didn’t I?”

“Ok, then come over here and teach me.” Holden says, casting him a coy smile. 

Bill’s mouth tilts with a giddy smirk as he sidles up behind Holden, and wraps both arms around him to guide his hands into place on the rod. 

“Like this.” He murmurs, his mouth brushing up against Holden’s ear. “Slight angle over your shoulder, not too hard.”

Holden follows his instructions, allowing Bill’s grip to do most of the work while he simply enjoys the way their bodies are pressed together. Bill flicks the rod forward, and the line sails out over the water, landing with a muted splash. The red and white bobber nods against the water, drifting against the ripples driven by the warm breeze. 

“It’s that easy.” Bill says, giving Holden’s backside a pat. “Now, just start reeling in as soon as you see it go under.”

As he leaves Holden to get in his own rod, Holden leans his elbows against the lip of the boat. 

“I think I might need you to show me that a few more times.” He says, looking at Bill from beneath his eyelashes as Bill joins him by the edge. 

“That so?”

“M-hmm.” 

Bill shakes his head, but he only gets a few more casts in before he’s behind Holden again, arms wrapped around him as the line whizzes free of the reel. Before he can lean away again, Holden reaches down to clutch at his wrist. The rod languishes in Bill’s hand as Holden leans back into the press of Bill’s mouth against the back of his neck. 

“Relaxing?” Bill murmurs. 

Holden nods, closing his eyes as the breeze soothes the heat on his cheeks and Bill’s mouth unravels the lingering tension in his neck. He turns around to face Bill, and loops an arm around his neck. 

“Thank you.” He murmurs, “For making me do this.”

“You’re welcome.” Bill says, leaning in to blend the response into a kiss. 

Their mouths connect softly at first, gaining traction as Bill’s arm tightens around Holden’s waist and he shuffles forward to pin him against the sleek side of the boat. Holden moans softly, slipping his mouth open to the stroke of Bill’s tongue. Bill’s lips come down harder, shifting down into a deeper angle that has Holden panting and weak, hardly thinking about work or fishing. 

Bill’s arm jolts, and he severs the kiss abruptly. 

“Hold on, we’ve got something.” He says, nudging Holden out of the way to grab at the reel with his other hand. The line draws taut, and Bill leans back to set the hook. With a half a dozen quick turns of the reel, Holden can see the fish cresting the surface of the lake, flapping helplessly against the tension on the line. After a minor struggle, it comes up out of the water, and Bill grabs it by the lip to work the hook free. 

“God, that’s ugly.” Holden says, peering at the fish’s slimy skin and bulging eyes. 

“Not bad. Decent size.”

“Pretty good for my first attempt at fishing.” Holden says. 

Bill scoffs at him, “I did all the work.”

“It’s my rod.”

“Oh, sure. Fine.” Bill says, rolling his eyes. “Do you want to hold it then?”

“What? No. That’s gross.”

“You make a pathetic fisherman, you know that?” Bill says, laughing softly as he lowers the fish back into the water. 

Holden laughs, but doesn’t argue. He’ll be whatever type of fisherman Bill wants as long as he can have a few kisses in between. 

Later, after Bill has reeled in no less than ten fish, and Holden has long since lost interest and started lounging across the seats with his book, Bill suggests they cool off in the water. 

The sun is going down over the lake, and the sky is striped with purple and pink swaths of luminescent color as they strip down to their swim trunks and slip into the water. Bill backstrokes away from the boat, and Holden chases after him until Bill stops to tread water. Holden holds out both hands, and Bill reels him in against his chest. Water laps gently between them as Holden laces his hands behind Bill’s neck, and nestles his head into his shoulder. 

Everything is quiet, only the distant buzz of insects and crickets to disturb the impending evening. The cove is far enough removed from the busiest part of the lake so that all the families with kids and dogs carousing through their vacation can’t see the two of them secluded in the water. 

Holden closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath. Bill treads his feet through the water, keeping them both afloat, and allowing Holden’s body to go limp in his arms. That weightless feeling invades his chest, going deep to where the last of his anxieties about leaving work unattended are still clutched. Bathed in sunset and cradled in Bill’s arms, he realizes he hasn’t felt this happy in far too long, and he isn’t going to complain again the next time Bill launches into a speech about the nuanced skills of fishing. 

“Bill?” He murmurs. 

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can we do this again next year?”

Bill holds him a little closer. “Yeah, absolutely. And every year after that, too.” 


	42. from one dream to the next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: bill waking holden up on a sunny day with a rimjob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warning: explicit sexual content**

Holden dreams of feathers down his bare spine, his body metamorphosing into heat, water, fluid. He can’t move, as if each limb weighs ten pounds, as he crawls from sleep, reaching up towards the morning sunlight and the distant lullaby of birdsong outside the window. The fixtures of their bedroom solidify: the nightstand with the clock reading a little past nine, the cracked spine of the book he’d fallen asleep reading, the closet with all of their ironed clothes hanging in the dazzling white light of morning; but he can’t focus on any of the fine details aside from those of his body, shivering and squirming against stimulation he’s just begun to recognize. 

Holden’s hand shifts against the edge of the mattress, instinctively grabbing on for structure against the floating warmth taking up residence in his body. Blinking his eyes open, he peers over his shoulder with an already blooming groan to see the top of Bill’s head hovering over the swell of his backside. 

The sheets are strewn back, and he’s rolled over onto his side with one knee pulled up towards his ribs. In the radiant morning sunlight, he can see the individual prickle of goosebumps rising down his pale spine and the backs of his thighs, making every hair rise in a titillated salute. 

Bill’s breath washes down into the cleft, and Holden can feel that he’s already slick with saliva, skin humming with stimulation that was introduced to his slumbering body before he could even connect the sensation to his warm, nebulous dreams. 

Before Holden can conjure a single thought, Bill’s tongue dips back down against him, winding along the cleft in a slow, lavish stripe from his tailbone to his perineum.

Holden gasps and arches, his eyes springing wide open. 

“Ohh …” He groans, his mind racing from the clutches of sleep as Bill’s calloused hands firmly clutch his ass cheeks and spread him open. 

Bill hums a pleased response, and presses his mouth and nose deeper into the cleft to swirl his tongue languidly over Holden’s hole. The stark stimulation against his sluggish senses seizes him brutally, and his body cries out with the sudden erotic sensation extracting him from dreamland and directly into pleasure. He barely has a chance to realize he’s awake before Bill turns him completely onto his stomach, and drags his hips up into a vulnerable arch. 

Clutching at the sheets, Holden moans a sound that’s still muted and raspy from sleep. Fast asleep, he hadn’t been holding a single ounce of tension in his body, but now that Bill’s mouth is on him, he can feel every muscle drawing taut quickly, bowling past any type of pretense to plunge him straight into shuddering desperation. 

Holden draws his knees under himself as Bill drags the hot press of his tongue all over, making a slick mess of his cleft. The stroke comes over and over, persistent and hungry, consuming every vulnerable part of him and planting a deep ache between his thighs. He rocks back into it, moaning in small, needy gasps that he can’t control. 

Bill’s hand pushes down his spine, retaining a deep arch that pushes his hips up and exposes his wet, quivering hole. The pressure of his tongue lapses as he leans back, and breaths a slow, hot exhale across the quaking skin. 

Holden chokes on a whimper, and casts a silent plea with his eyes over his shoulder. 

Bill’s eyes are pale blue in the morning sunlight, his mouth gleaming wet and pink from friction. He meets Holden’s gaze with a pleased smirk, and slips his hand between Holden’s thigh to find his cock hard and aching. 

“Ohh …” Holden moans, his body lurching forward only so far as the grip on his cock will allow. 

Bill’s tongue pokes past his lips again to trace Holden’s taut hole with a slow, purposeful line, and Holden shudders watching the slow tasting through half-shut eyes. 

The pressure increases again as Bill’s tongue stays taut against him, surging in tightening circles around the opening; meanwhile, he languidly jerks Holden’s cock, just enough to keep the arousal pulsing through him, not enough to make him think of coming. 

“God, Bill …” He moans, rocking his hips back into the stroking. “That’s so good.”

Bill’s tongue retreats, and he plants a kiss on the inner swell of Holden’s ass cheek. His hand stroking Holden’s cock drags to an even slower pace, gauging the pulse running through him. 

“Fuck, you taste so good.” He murmurs, trailing his thumb along the slick cleft. 

Holden’s body stiffens beneath the caress, and a low whine emerges from his throat. He watches deliriously over his shoulder as Bill rubs his thumb into the opening and tests the lack of resistance in his melting muscles. 

“Mm, yes …” Holden moans, his eyes squeezing shut against the shallow pressure. 

Bill’s thumb slides away, down into the tender patch of his perineum while his mouth comes down to eat up the saliva-slick pucker once again. This time, his lips seal around the sensitive skin and clamp down, drawing it firmly past his teeth. 

Holden’s mouth stretches open as a rift of pleasure surges through him. He tries not to, but he can’t help the overwhelmed lurch of his body instinctively curling away from the intense pressure. His skin drags free of Bill’s mouth, cooling against the air for the space of a few seconds before Bill drags him back in and snares it once more. 

Holden nearly sobs into the sheets, his whole body quivering with the pounding pulse of arousal. He clings to the edge of the mattress while Bill’s mouth takes him apart, ending the hard suckle only to follow it with persistent lapping with his tongue, and finally the slow, aching breach of Holden’s sensitized, quivering hole. 

Bill’s tongue thrusts gradually into him, and Holden feels his entire being go weak and melted with pleasure. He crouches limply against the sheets, drooling from his dangling lips and whimpering softly with each entrance of Bill’s tongue. The pleasuring eases to a slow, deliberate pace; Bill’s tongue fucks him slowly, gently, a slick, shallow penetration that siphons any lingering tension from his muscles. 

Holden is too busy floating inside decadent pleasure to pay attention to where the rest of Bill’s body is at when his hand creeps back between Holden’s trembling thighs. The graze of his fingertips along Holden’s swollen cock races like electricity, and Holden lurches forward with an alarmed gasp. 

“Come here.” Bill murmurs, dragging him with a gentle yet firm grip on his cock. “I’m not done with you.”

Holden whimpers, and casts a dazed glance over his shoulder. “Yes, please …”

Bill’s mouth tilts with a pleased smile just before he applies his tongue again. While it slips back inside him, finding that grinding, curling pace, he strokes Holden’s throbbing cock in his big, warm fist. 

Holden sighs aloud as pleasure curls up through his belly, tightening to a hot, pulsing ache. He relaxes, letting it build, letting Bill’s touch carry him from one dream to the next. 

“Ohh, yes …” He whimpers, his eyes squeezing shut as the first tingling quiver grips his belly. “Bill, I’m so close …”

Bill hums a response, but his touch doesn’t stray for a second. His hand shifts into a faster rhythm, dragging over Holden’s aching cock with just the right amount of friction to build the ache to an undeniable, swelling tide while his tongue slithers in and out of Holden’s limp hole. 

Holden rocks back and forth between the friction of Bill’s palm and the slick penetration of his tongue, panting hoarsely as the pleasure comes in slow, deep currents, cresting higher and higher towards orgasm. 

“Oh, Bill. Like that …” He moans, his voice going high-pitched and paper-thin with arousal. “Like that. Oh, I’m …”

The rambling cry chokes off into a gasping moan as the wave rises, orgasm swallowing him in hot, rippling clutches. His whole body seizes with the first deep, hard spasm, and his back arches uncontrollably. He feels Bill fist jerking faster around his cock, encouraging the pleasure spilling out of him, and he can almost feel the way he’s draining, cum gushing from his cock to soil the bed sheets in elated, copious bursts. 

Bill’s mouth leaves him as Holden trembles through the fading spasms, but his fist keeps squeezing and pulling, milking every last drop from his melted, shivering body. 

As the orgasm fades, Holden sinks down and rolls toward the other side of the bed to avoid the slick mess of cum he’d made in the sheets. 

“Jesus Christ.” He whispers, pressing the back of one hand over his eyes. Behind the clutch of his eyelids, he’s seeing stars and hearing a shrill ring. His extremities feel numb and tingling, as if all the blood and heat in his body has been pooled to his core which is now faintly pulsing with aftershocks. 

Bill crawls over to lay down beside him with one elbow propped underneath him. 

Holden pulls his hand away from his eyes and blinks up at him through the yellow wash of sunlight stretching past the curtains. “What was that all about?”

Bill smiles, and smooths a hand down Holden’s belly and the swell of his hip. 

“I woke up and you looked delicious. I had to get a taste.” He says, bending down to kiss Holden slowly on the mouth. 

“God …” Holden whispers, his voice still tangled up in a groan. “I’ve never woken up like that before … that was incredible.”

“Mm, it was. You came so hard.”

Holden flushes hotly, and hides his face in Bill’s chest. 

Bill chuckles and cradles his nape to pull him back again. He plants a kiss on Holden’s mouth and then his temple, his mouth clinging there as he draws Holden closer to him. 

Holden glances down to see Bill’s cock resting all hard and unfulfilled against his thigh. He reaches down tentatively to stroke it, but Bill pushes his hand away. 

“What about you?” Holden asks, frowning as Bill pins his wrist against the sheets. 

“We’ll get there.” Bill says, offering a roguish smile. “We’ve got all morning. I’m not done with you yet.” 


	43. the blanket thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: Okay, but Holden stealing all the covers and/or kicking and Bill calling him a little shit and pushing him out of the bed is definitely something we need, right? Right.

The week’s worth of road school stops had been going incredibly well right up until Bill and Holden drove their rental car from the airport and into the quaint, downtown square of Corin, Wyoming to discover that there had been a fire at the hotel they were meant to be staying at in the early hours of the morning. A large portion of the hotel had been damaged either by flames or smoke, and though no one had been injured, the entire building was no longer suitable for anyone to stay the night. 

Bill and Holden were shunted over to the smaller lodging around the corner, more of a rural, bed and breakfast type establishment than a hotel in Bill’s estimation. 

They’re standing in the cramped lobby with the rest of the overflow from the larger hotel, most of whom are arguing with poor, overwhelmed clerks who are attempting to mitigate the mass chaos. 

“This is ridiculous.” Bill says, taking a drag of his cigarette. 

“Let’s just try to be patient.” 

Bill casts Holden a long stare, and doesn’t try to repress his sigh. They’ve been standing here for twenty minutes with the clock creeping closer and closer towards five o’clock when they’re supposed to be going to the precinct for their presentation. Once the class is over, they’re going to want to get straight to bed before the early flight in the morning. The tight turn around for these classes doesn’t allow for this kind of delay. 

“We’re going to be late.” 

“It’s four-fifteen.” Holden says checking his watch calmly. “We’re going to be fine.” 

Bill’s gaze cuts past the other disgruntled patrons to the desk. An employee from the first hotel is holding a binder with the reservations, trying his best to assist the clerk of the inn with finding rooms for everyone. 

“I wonder if it says somewhere in there that we’re FBI.”

“These other people need places to stay too.” Holden says. 

His placating demeanor is getting on Bill’s nerves right along with the incessant clamor of the crowded lobby and the stuffy air getting hotter from too many hot heads and running mouths. 

“That’s it.” Bill says, “Stay here.”

“Bill.” Holden protests, quietly. 

Ignoring him, Bill shoulders his way past the other people in line, drawing several stares and complaints. 

“Hey, man, you can’t cut the line.” A guy who is trying to wrangle his toddler gripes. 

Bill pulls his badge out of his pocket, flashes it without saying a word, and keeps walking. The rest of the crowd parts like the Red Sea until he gets to the desk. 

“Excuse me.” He says, drawing the two clerks’ attention up to him. “Any chance of my partner and I getting a room before four-thirty. We’ve got an important engagement at five.”

“Yes, sir, we’re doing the best we can.” The male clerk replies, “What’s your name?”

“Tench.” Bill says, sliding his badge across the desk. “Special Agent Bill Tench.”

The clerk’s mouth moves wordlessly for a moment, his face flushing with muted panic. 

“I, uh … I’m so sorry, sir.” He says, beginning to flip feverishly through the pages of reservations, “I have it in here somewhere. Just one moment.”

“I don’t care what kind of room it is.” Bill says, “It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, we’re only in town for one night. Just give me a key and I’ll get out of your hair.”

The inn clerk scans her computer screen for a moment before nudging the man. “We can give him this room. I know they just finished cleaning it.”

“Great.” Bill says, “Like I said, I don’t-”

“You said you had a partner?” She asks, wincing. “It’s only one bed.”

Bill sighs in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m sorry. But it’s the best I can do before four-thirty.”

“Jesus Christ. Fine.” 

“Again, I’m so very sorry.”

“It’s fine. Like I said, it’s only one night.” Bill says, extending his hand to take the key. 

“Here you go.” She says, placing the key in his hand. “Enjoy your stay.” 

~

Bill doesn’t tell Holden about the single bed situation until they’re driving back from teaching road school that evening. 

“Is that really the best they could do?” Holden says, disbelief rising his voice. 

“She said it was.” 

“Great. So who’s taking the couch or the floor?”

“Uh, not me.” Bill says, casting him a scowl.

“Oh, so I get to do it because I’m the rookie?”

“No. My back can’t take sleeping on the floor. It wouldn’t be pretty if I tried to get back up again.”

Holden shakes his head in disbelief. “What about my back?”

“You’re young and limber.”

“Limber?” 

“Sure.” 

“That makes me sound like … oh nevermind.” Holden mutters. 

Bill leans into the turn as he steers them down the road towards the small inn crouched at the end of the street. He peeks across the car at Holden, the intermittent flash of street lamps illuminating his face. He looks decidedly dejected about the prospect of sleeping on the floor, and Bill realizes he doesn’t like this look on him. 

When they reach the inn, the chaos from earlier in the day has died down. They make their way quietly down the narrow halls with their wooden floorboards that creak like an old farmhouse. Their room has a wooden door with gaudy, brass numbers and an antique handle that feels like it could break off in Bill’s hand. He opens the door to a small, yet neat room with a king-sized, four-poster bed covered in a pale blue, quilted duvet. He feels like he just walked into a rural honeymoon suite. 

Holden surveys the tiny loveseat in one corner of the room with a scowl. “I can’t sleep on this.”

He turns around to watch with pursed lips as Bill sits down on the edge of the mattress and tests the spring. 

“The bed is pretty big.” He says.

Bill casts him a narrowed glance. “Yeah.”

“King sized.”

“I think so.”

Another beat of silence. Holden blinks at him. Baby blue eyes, adorable, persuasive. Bill sighs through his nostrils. 

“Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

“It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” Holden asks, spreading his hands. “Why should I sleep on that tiny couch when there’s plenty of room in the  _ king-sized  _ bed.”

“You want to share a bed with me?”

“Please, Bill, stop being a prude.” Holden says, “Were you ever in the boy scouts? We used to share a sleeping bag, for God’s sakes.”

“Okay, fine. I get your point.”

“I’ll stay on my side and you can stay on yours.” Holden says, “It’ll be fine.”

“Will it?” 

“Yes.”

Bill sighs, and raises his hands. “Okay. Don’t make me regret this.” 

“You won’t even know I’m there.”

~

Bill stares up at the ceiling in the darkness for a long time after they crawl in bed. He’s used to sharing a bed with someone, and feeling someone’s body heat merging with his own. His wife’s body heat. That’s what he’s used to. The way Nancy breathes, the way she barely moves in her sleep. 

Holden, on the other hand, starts twitching the minute he drops off into slumber, causing Bill to spend the next ten minutes wondering what he’s dreaming about. Holden probably dreams about work, he decides. What else does this kid think about? He has a girlfriend, sure, but he’s so focused. So naive at the same time. 

Bill sinks down against the pillows, and rolls over onto his side so that he’s facing Holden’s back. When he catches himself staring at the hitched rise and fall of Holden’s shoulders, he rolls over again to face the wall. 

_ Go to sleep. Don’t think about it.  _

After some concerted effort, he does, but not for long. 

He’s not sure what time it is, but it’s pitch black and he’s cold. Shivering actually. Keeping his eyes shut, Bill reaches down to grope for the blankets. He’s fallen asleep with them around his waist, but his patting fingers can’t find the sheets. 

_ What the fuck?  _

With a grunt, he rolls onto his back and cracks his eyelids open to scan the foot of the bed. The blankets are pulled diagonally across the bed, off his body, leaving only his feet halfway covered up while the rest of him is exposed to the low, mid-October temperatures. As his eyes open wider, sleep stripping back into annoyed realization, he sees Holden rolled onto his belly with the blankets pulled over top of him. One hand clutched the edge of the duvet under his chin. Caught red-handed. 

Bill scowls in disbelief, and reaches over to grab onto the edge of the blanket. The sheets pull freely from Holden’s loose grasp, but only stretch so far before getting caught up in his legs. 

Giving a forceful yank, Bill pulls the bunched blankets free, and disturbs Holden’s sleep. 

Holden rolls onto his side, feet kicking against the tugging on the blanket. He groans in the back of his throat and frowns, but he’s still half asleep when his flailing foot lands directly on Bill’s shin. 

“Ow, fuck!” 

Holden’s eyes spring open, and he peers through the darkness as Bill curses loudly under his breath. “Bill … what’s going on?”

“You stole all the blankets, that’s what going on.” Bill hisses back, giving the sheets another determined yank. 

Holden grabs onto the other side of the blankets to cling to his portion, and whines, “Bill, stop.”

“Then you kicked me in the shin, you little shit.” 

“I did? I’m sorry, I-”

“‘You won’t even know I’m here’.” Bill mocks, yanking the blankets over his shivering shoulders. “Unbelievable.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“I told you not to make me regret this.” 

“I didn’t mean to.”

Bill mutters another curse under his breath as he rolls over to squint at the clock. “Jesus. It’s only two o’clock. It’s been four hours and you’ve already stolen the blankets and kicked me in the shin.”

“Can we please just go back to sleep?” Holden’s voice is muffled under the blankets as he pulls them up over his head to block out Bill’s complaining. 

“This is going to be the worst night’s sleep of my life.”

“Yeah, it will be if you keep whining.”

Bill heaves out a great sigh, and sinks to his back against the pillow. Tucking the blankets up over his chest, he presses his eyes shut and tries to go back to sleep. 

Three hours later, Holden steals the blankets again. And wraps himself up in them so tightly that it’s like unraveling a burrito when Bill viciously yanks them from around his limp, blissfully contented limbs. 

“You’re shitting me.” Bill gripes. 

“Fuck. Sorry.” Holden mutters, still half asleep. 

“I’m going to kick you out of this bed. You’re going to make me fucking do it.”

“I said I was sorry.” 

“You said that the last time! For the love of God, how many blankets do you need?”

“I don’t know. I’m not used to sleeping with anyone.”

They both fall silent as that confession wanders into the darkness. Bill sighs as he settles back against the pillow. 

“I thought you had a girlfriend.”

“I do. We like our own spaces.” 

Bill frowns. “So you’ve never slept with her? I mean, in the same bed?”

“Yes, I have. Once or twice. She didn’t shout at me.”

“I bet you didn’t kick her in the shins either.”

“That was an accident.”

“Sure.” Bill mutters. 

Holden rolls over onto his side, and Bill can feel his eyes on him despite the shadows. 

“What?” He asks. 

“Nothing. I was just thinking …. Don’t you miss sleeping in bed with Nancy when you’re gone?”

“I suppose so.”

“I’m used to sleeping alone, but … it’s kind of nice to not have to.” 

Bill’s chest squeezes, and right now he can’t think of a scathing retort. Holden sounds so innocent and hopeful. It’s difficult to stay mad. 

“I’ll try not to kick you again. Or steal the blankets.” Holden whispers, “Promise you won’t kick me out?”

Bill sighs. “Fine.” 

“Thanks, Bill.” 

They both fall back to sleep again, and Bill is relieved to discover that he isn’t woken up again until the alarm clock starts going off at seven o’clock.

His eyelids crack open to the early morning sunlight slanting past the yellow, gingham curtains, dust motes sailing through the air above the bed. The temperatures must have risen overnight because Bill isn’t shivering anymore despite Holden having stolen the blankets - again. 

Bill turns off the alarm clock, and pushes up against the pillows to light a cigarette. While he smokes, he quietly watches Holden’s serene expression of sleep, half-covered by the bunched edge of the duvet tucked up against his chin and mouth. His hair is all disheveled, little curls winding stubbornly against his forehead. 

Bill clenches his jaw against the warm rush of fondness in his chest, and tells himself to stop it. This kid just spent half the night stealing the blankets and kicking him in the shin. What’s there to be sentimental about? 

After he finishes off his cigarette, he reaches over to give Holden’s shoulder a coarse nudge. 

“Time to get up, sleeping beauty.”

Holden’s eyelids flutter open against the sunlight that glistens off the blue in his eyes like a late afternoon sky. 

“How are you feeling? Rested?” Bill asks, climbing out of bed. “I sure hope so. You stole the blankets again.”

Holden’s arms creep out from beneath the blankets to push them away from his chin and down his chest. He stretches, casting Bill a sheepish smile. 

“Sorry.”

“You said that already. I’m never doing this again.”

“Well, hopefully we won’t be in a situation where we have. You snore very loudly, you know?”

“No, I had no idea.” Bill says, casting him a snide glare. 

Holden sits upright in bed, and stretches again, causing his shirt to ride up his belly. Bill catches a glimpse of pale skin and a faint trail of gleaming, auburn hairs disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. 

He glances away as he pulls a change of clothes out of his suitcase. 

“I’m gonna hit the shower really quick so we can get going.” He says, “You want to stop for breakfast before we leave?”

“We can get something on the plane.”

“Yeah, okay.” 

Bill gathers up his clothes and toiletries, and carries them toward the bathroom. 

Holden’s gaze quietly follows him as he scrapes a hand through the disheveled waves of his hair and stifles a yawn. 

“Bill?” 

“Yeah?” Bill asks, pausing at the doorway of the bathroom.

“Thank you for not making me sleep on the couch.” Holden says, “And for tolerating my … blanket thievery.”

Bill purses his lips against the smile that wants to rise. “I should have kicked you out like I said I would.”

“But you didn’t.” Holden says, his eyelids lowering coyly. 

Bill sighs.  _ Why can’t I say no to you?  _

“So, thank you.” Holden adds, clearing his throat. “I actually do feel very rested.”

Bill nods, and slips into the bathroom. Easing the door shut behind him, he stands still and stares at the little hand-painted blue flowers blooming on the tile floor. 

He can remember rolling over some time in the night, half-asleep and weighed down by dreams, his body instinctively lured towards the warmth beside him. He’d awoken with his arm draped over Holden’s ribs. Or had he? It’s all so vague, it could have been a dream. Either way, he’d rolled away immediately; but now, he can’t help but wonder if Holden remembers it too. Maybe they had both dreamt a bit too much last night. 


	44. open sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: idk what came over me but suddenly i need a shower scene... bill gently washing holden's body and then just going to a warm bed..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warning: some sexual content**

The elevator is playing some muted jazz tune that grates on Holden’s frayed nerves as he rides up through the floors. A small pool of water gathers at his feet, the chilled run-off from his oversaturated clothes that are soaked through from the torrential rainfall he’d trudged through for the last two hours at the dumpsite. He can’t feel his extremities any longer, and the bone-chilling shiver he’d suffered through for the first half of the trek has tapered off into a numb clench of overtaxed muscles. 

A fisherman pulling up crab traps found the weighted down body, another in a series of five that could have, in fact, been the first. The killer had gone to great lengths to conceal the body, with much success. The corpse had been so decomposed, bloated, and eaten away at that identifying her is going to be nearly impossible. Overall, more of a setback than a step forward for the investigation. 

The elevator doors ding open, and Holden leaves his little pool of water dribbling across the elevator floor when he moves out into the hallway. His soaked trench coat swishes quietly in the utter silence of the hall. It’s late, and most of the hotel patrons are tucked in their rooms for the night. Nobody notices him leaving a trail of damp footprints in the carpet all the way down to his own lodging. 

When Holden opens the door of his room, the lamp beside the bed is on, casting faint, yellow light across the figure slouched on the mattress. 

“Why aren’t you in your own room?” Holden asks, pausing to frown at Bill. 

Bill glances up from the case file he has opened in his lap. “I wanted to get an update when you got back … Shit, you look terrible.”

Holden glances down at his soaked clothing with a sigh. “Thanks.”

“Looks like I got the long end of the stick.”

“You should have seen it.” Holden says, carefully sliding out of his coat. “I just watched a fifteen-year detective puke his guts out.”

“That bad, huh?”

“We think she’d been in there for over a month.”

“Jesus.” 

Holden grabs a hanger from the closet to hang his coat up to dry, and loosens the damp knot in his tie. Now that he’s back in his room, he can feel the waves of exhaustion rolling in harder and harder, the dismal details of the case dragging his thoughts down into sordid places. He wants to crawl in bed and forget about the world. 

Bill climbs off the bed, and approaches him with a worried gaze. 

“Are you okay?”

Holden nods, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m just exhausted.”

“Well, come on. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.” Bill says, “You’re going to catch a cold.”

Holden nods, but doesn’t move. Suddenly, it’s like all the strength has gone out of his limbs. The heat of the day had burst out into rain, plastering coldly over dried sweat, and he smells like river water and mud; but even that realization can’t bring an ounce of motivation back into his drained body. 

“You have to get cleaned up.” Bill says, gently. “No offense, but it smells like you just came from a crime scene.”

“Thanks, Bill.” Holden says, mustering a teasingly sarcastic tone that falls somewhat flat. 

He glances up when Bill pulls the knot out of his tie and begins unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Oh, so you  _ like  _ the smell of a crime scene?” He whispers. 

Bill casts him a terse glance as the humor falls short again. 

“You need a shower, food, rest.” Bill says, steadily unbuttoning Holden’s shirt until he can gently peel the damp fabric away from his shoulders. 

Holden closes his eyes, letting the shirt slide off his wrists. Now that he’s indoors, out of the cold, his body temperature is struggling to readjust, leaving him shivering again. 

“Come on, help me out here.” Bill urges, untucking his undershirt. 

Holden reaches down to unbuckle his belt. As he bends down to strip out of the wet trousers and underwear, he peeks up at Bill’s stoic, worried expression. 

“Are you going to help me bathe too?”

“You want me to?”

Holden frowns. “No, I was kidding.”

Bill’s eyes are soft as Holden pulls his undershirt off over his head, and drops it into the pile with the rest of his wet, soiled clothing. His skin prickles with goosebumps, and he can’t help the chill that runs through him. 

“Come on.” Bill says, taking him by the hand. 

Holden doesn’t find the will to protest as Bill leads him into the bathroom, and pulls the shower door open. Cranking on the faucet, he holds his fingers under the spray of water to test the temperature. When he’s happy with the warmth, he stands back and motions Holden closer. 

“Get in there.” 

Holden shuffles past him, casting Bill a sheepish gaze. “What are you doing?”

Without answering, Bill lifts his arms to pull his undershirt off. 

“Bill, you don’t have to-”

“ _ Get in _ .” 

Holden purses his mouth shut, and steps into the shower where the heat of the water is already beginning to create a cloud of steam. His chilled, rain-slick skin immediately warms beneath the hot, needling spray, and he leans against the cool tile with a heavy sigh. Slipping his eyelids open, he peers past the surge of water to see Bill kicking off his boxers, and climbing in with him - and it’s an image he can’t really complain about. 

The door eases shut behind them with a click, entrapping the steamed air and shared breaths. The sound of water hitting the shower base grows to a dull roar that drowns out his tired thoughts, and makes an effort at drowning out the burned images of a bloated, drowned corpse from the back of his mind. 

Bill eases up behind him, both arms winding around Holden’s chest and drawing him back into a tight embrace. The heat of his breath and the slick press of his mouth settle against Holden’s nape where the drawn muscles are beginning to relax in the heated environment. 

Holden sinks back against the solid breadth of Bill’s chest with a deep sigh. 

“It was a rough day.” Bill says, his voice barely audible above the water. 

Holden nods, unwilling - perhaps unable - to cling onto his facade of calm and control any longer. 

“Next time you can stay back, and I’ll take the dump site.”

“We had no way of knowing it was going to be that bad … or that it was going to start downpouring as soon as we got there.”

“I know. All the same, fair is fair, right?”

Holden nods again, and reaches up to cling to Bill’s forearms folded tightly across his chest. His eyelids slip shut, exhaustion pulling at every fiber of his body. He’s been awake since five o’clock this morning, an established routine following through the past two weeks; and as if the rain hadn’t been enough, the riverbed had turned into a mirey mess of muddy sludge that made trudging along the edge even more of a difficult task than originally assumed. 

Bill gives him a squeeze. “You gonna fall asleep on me?”

“Possibly.”

“Okay, give me that.” Bill chuckles, waving a finger at the washcloth and bottle of soap on the caddy. 

“I said I was kidding-”

“The sooner we get you to bed the better. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then let me help you.” 

Holden sighs. He grabs the washcloth and soap from the caddy, and hands them over to his shoulder to Bill. 

“Am I allowed to wash my own hair?”

“Sure. We’ll be out of here twice as fast.” 

Holden grabs the shampoo, and squeezes some out into his palm. As he begins to lather it in his hair, Bill starts the washcloth at his neck, massaging slowly down his shoulders and down into his back. The light, warm pressure begs his muscles to relax entirely, melting away the last of the day’s worries and frustrations. 

Holden quickly rinses out his hair so that he can lean motionless against the cool tile while Bill’s hand scrubs in slow, tight circles between his shoulder blades, down his spine, into the aching tension lingering in his lower back.

Sighing aloud, he lets his head drop in lax satisfaction, and is rewarded with the faint gust of Bill’s steady breathing across his nape as he leans closer. 

“Not so bad, huh?” Bill murmurs. 

Holden shakes his head as the washcloth slides back up the curve of his spine and over his shoulder to massage the length of his arm. Stretching out his fingers, he nudges his palm into Bill’s through the soapy drape of the washcloth when the touch comes down along his wrist. 

Bill squeezes back for a moment before extracting his hand to drag the cloth along Holden’s side. It climbs slowly, following the shuddering ladder of his ribs, nudging under his arm, and Holden lifts his arm over his head without complaint. A quiet whimper rolls from the back of his throat as Bill’s chest presses against his back in the same moment that the washcloth lathers his armpit and the underside of his bicep. 

Bill’s mouth presses against the shell of his ear, searing hot breath and a muted, raspy inhale against the tender skin. Water sluices between them, skin sliding and warm, lacking friction of any kind. Their hips collide slowly, a slick greeting of Bill’s faintly pulsing cock into the cleft of Holden’s backside drizzling with running soap and water. 

“I thought you said you weren’t coming onto me.” Holden murmurs, tilting his head back as Bill’s touch creeps across his chest. 

“I didn’t say that.”

Holden chuckles in the back of his throat. “Not that I’m complaining …”

His voice trails off right along with whatever resistance he’d previously held to the idea of Bill bathing him. The sudsing washcloth follows the lines of his collarbones, down across his chest, grazing tender, puckering nipples before diving towards his belly. He rises on his toes, trying not to gasp as warmth explodes in his belly. 

Grasping Holden’s wet hip, Bill pulls him around to face him. Water drums across Holden’s relaxed shoulders as he leans into Bill’s chest, fingers clutching for purchase against his shoulders. The washcloth presses against his lower back, firmly circling lower. 

Holden blinks against damp eyelashes and misting water, hazily focusing in on Bill’s quietly needy eyes and the gleam of his lips. He’s shivering again, though not from the cold; then, Bill leans down to kiss him, and he can’t think of rainwater or dead bodies any longer. He melts back into the cool, solid tile wall, the only thing still pinning his warm, floating body to reality, and throws both arms around Bill’s neck. 

The washcloth drags distractedly across his backside as Bill pushes closer, stroking his tongue into Holden’s lapsing mouth. Their hands clutch wetly back and forth, skin heated and slick, smooth and gliding. In the scarce space between them, Holden can feel matching pulses, their cocks glazed and sliding against one another, no friction just the lovely sensation of budding, mutual need. 

Holden closes his eyes and tilts his head back as Bill’s mouth surges from the lips to his jawline to his neck. The hungry kiss, which might have burned and ached in the bedroom, only hums with slippery heat, Bill’s tongue adding a faint layer of texture to the water already running down his throat. The washcloth drops to the ground, and Holden gasps aloud as Bill’s bare hand clutches at his backside. 

“Ohh …” Holden moans, clutching at Bill’s soaked shoulders. “Yes.”

Bill’s mouth lifts from his throat, and he presses his forehead against Holden’s so that they can exchange needy gazes and hot, gasping breaths. It’s so warm in the shower that Holden can physically feel his blood pressure dropping even as the pulse surges between his thighs, leaving him half-dizzy with a sense of detached, aroused euphoria. He tilts his head back against the wall and lets his eyes slip shut, his body go under the incoming wave of hot, gradually cresting desire. 

Bill’s hand clutches his backside while the other slips between them, and that’s it - Holden loses sight of reality entirely. The drum of water is just white noise, the white tile a blank slate, the distant roar of his thoughts tuned out like pesky radio interference. He’s lost in the breathless seconds, unwinding, rapidly coming undone, Bill’s hands setting him afloat on the open, tranquil sea. 

He finds the last scrap of his strength to touch Bill back, wanting to pull Bill out into this surreal plane of pleasure with him. Bill presses closer, his breath hot on Holden’s cheeks and vibrating with a groan. They’re so close that their hands can barely move between them, managing sloppy, slick pulls, their knuckles bumping, their legs entangling. Still, it takes little more than a few minutes before they’re gasping against one another, fresh, slick heat gushing between their tightly clasped bodies. The sound of pounding water drowns out whimpering moans and choked grunts of pleasure, and the squeak and thud of trembling feet bracing against rolling tides of gripping spasms. When it’s over, they quietly cling to one another in a trembling embrace until breaths and hearts regain stable rhythms. 

Bill pulls back, stroking Holden’s cheek gently. 

“Mm.” Holden murmurs a happy sound from his throat. “I feel so weak.”

Bill chuckles, softly. “Can you stand? I’m not done cleaning you up yet.”

Holden nods and leans drowsily against the wall, watching Bill with half-shut eyes and a faint smile as Bill crouches down to retrieve the forgotten washcloth. He adds more soap and lathers it up between his hands before staying below Holden to run the cloth down his thighs and calves. His body hums with sated pleasure, and the gentle washing only encourages the relaxed buzz in his veins. 

By the time Bill finishes and rises to his feet, Holden can feel himself melting down against the tile, wanting nothing more than to lay down and sleep. Bill wraps both arms around him and pulls him back beneath the spray of the water so that all of the lingering soap can wash away. 

Holden nestles his head against Bill’s chest while the water surges down his back. If he closes his eyes, it’s like they’re back at home for a moment - no worries, no case, no dead bodies, no alarm clock jolting him awake at five o’ lock the next morning and only the sunlight slanting through the blinds to illuminate their entangled limbs. Bill, right there beside him, attending to his every need. He hadn’t realized just how much he was craving this kind of attention until now. 

When the last of the soap is gone, Bill shuts off the water, and eases the door open. Holden climbs out onto the rug, shivering and prickling with goosebumps. The warm, lightheaded haze inside the shower is quickly snatched away. He resents it until Bill puts the towel around his shoulders, and chases away the chilled shudder with the gentle scrub of terrycloth. 

“Feeling better?” Bill asks, pausing with the towel wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Yes, much better.” 

Bill drops a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. “And to think you tried to stop me.”

“Well, I won’t be making that mistake again.”

They share a slow kiss before Bill pulls back with a sigh, and nods toward the room. “Bed time?”

“Yes, please.”

Not bothering to put on pajamas, Holden crawls into bed where the freshly washed sheets settle warmly on his clean skin. His eyes slide shut, and for all he knew, it could have been clouds bearing him up into the sky. He hears Bill say something about whether or not he wants something to eat first, and he hears himself grunt a reply; but he’s already half asleep before he can even consider whether or not he’s hungry. Then, the lamp shuts off, plunging the room into darkness, and Bill is slipping under the covers with him, body cradling Holden’s tightly to his chest. His mind sinks, losing itself in exhaustion and the lure of abandon in dreams. Distantly, he hears Bill whisper something soft against his ear, almost indistinct. It sounds a bit like  _ I love you;  _ and Holden whispers it back, not sure if he’s already dreaming, but too content to chase after the difference. 


	45. exhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: How about a fic where Bill comes home after being away from Holden for a while and he finds Holden asleep, cooking, doing laundry, or something like that in his clothes? I can't help but think Holden wearing Bill's clothes would be adorable but also really tender and heartwarming for Bill to see.

Whenever he’s flying home from a long, stressful case, Bill never starts to relax until he’s driving down their street, and the sight of the yellow light filling the window comes into view. He spends the plane ride in tenuous limbo, lingering exhaustion and dismal images clinging to the back of his mind even as he tries to tell himself that it’s over; it’s finally over, and he can go home. Even driving through the familiar streets of Fredericksburg between the airport and home can’t quite convince his keyed-up subconscious to uncurl it’s stiffened fist. It’s that warm light from beyond the window, the front door when his key slides into the lock, the exhale he feels on the other side of the threshold, and then - Holden. 

Tonight, as the clock is creeping past nine, he wastes no time in hauling his suitcases out of the trunk of the car, and making his way up the porch steps in the semi-darkness. Holden had left the porch light on for him, casting white light as he pulls out his keys and eagerly unlocks the door. 

After two weeks away from home, he’d begun to feel the strain of the distance; even just one week is bad enough, and phone conversations from across the distant miles between Virginia and North Dakota simply can’t match how it feels to touch Holden again, the exact color of his eyes when he looks up through his lashes, the ready blush on his cheeks, the taste of his lips. 

In the living room, Bill drops his bags off to the side, and pitches his dwindling cigarette out the door before locking it behind him. Straightening, he glances around the living room to see that the television is still playing at low volume and Holden’s current novel is sitting on the coffee table beside the dregs of a glass of wine, but Holden himself is nowhere to be seen. 

“Holden?” He calls out. 

There’s no response as he shuffles into the living room and peeks into the kitchen. The kitchen sink and counter are in pristine condition, no dirty dishes or forgotten cups in sight. The garbage can has a new bag in it, and the piling up junk mail that Bill had left on the kitchen table got cleaned off too while he was gone. 

Bill smiles wryly at the obvious indicators of Holden’s rigorous cleaning routines that he’s come to pitifully rely upon. 

Leaving the kitchen, Bill wanders down the hallway, noting the empty bathroom and study before he reaches the bedroom where the light is on. When he pokes his head into the room, his urgency to get his arms around Holden creeps to a momentary pause. 

Holden has his back to the door while he folds the pile of laundry on the bed, but he’s entirely unaware of Bill’s presence as he has his Walkman attached to the drawstring of his track shorts and a pair of headphones stamped over disheveled curls. 

Bill’s smile widens as he notices the baggy, gray t-shirt hanging off Holden’s shoulders and quickly identifies it as an Eagles shirt out of his own closet. The shirt is a few sizes too big, sleeves coming almost down to Holden’s elbows while the hem is bunched over the Walkman in the front and draping most of his backside. 

Leaning against the door frame, Bill observes Holden’s unaware movements for a long moment, enjoying the brisk pace of his folding and the bob of his head tilting in rhythm with the music. He looks so carefree and happy that Bill quickly forgets his own lingering worries from the case and the last two weeks of constant stress and very little sleep.

Finally, too enamored to keep hanging back, he creeps up behind Holden and clasps him by the hips to draw him back into a kiss against the nape. 

The towel in Holden’s hands drops to the bed as he startles with a loud gasp. Tearing the headphones from his ears, he sinks back against Bill, and clutches at his chest. 

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!”

“Sorry.” Bill says, muffling a chuckle in the back of Holden’s neck, hardly apologetic. 

“I didn’t know you were coming home tonight!” Holden says, twisting out of Bill’s embrace to spin around with an indigent glare and flushed cheeks. “You could have been a robber or worse or-”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself.” Bill says, leaning in to gently kiss him on the cheek. 

Holden ducks away, scowling. “You just took ten years off my life.”

“Yeah? You’re looking pretty good to me.”

Holden surrenders with an eye roll and a groan as Bill clutches him by the waist and draws him back. 

“Is this my shirt?” Bill murmurs, giving the baggy front of the shirt a tug as he nuzzles a kiss below Holden’s earlobe. 

“Technically. I’ve never seen you wear it.”

“I have to admit, it does look better on you than it does on me.”

“Oh, so you’re saying I can have it?”

“You want me to try to take it off you?”

Holden laughs, low and mischievous. “You’re pretty frisky for a guy who just spent two weeks chasing after a serial killer in subzero temperatures.”

“What can I say?” Bill says, uttering a sigh. “I missed you.”

Holden’s teeth press coyly at his lower lip. “I missed you, too.” 

“I can tell. You did all the housework.”

“I get restless when you’re gone.”

“Well, thank you.” Bill murmurs, leaning in to kiss him softly. 

Holden kisses him back before leaning away with a deep, steadying inhale, and both hands planted on Bill’s chest. 

“You’re welcome. This place was kind of a wreck. When was the last time you cleaned your bathroom?”

“Oh, Christ.” Bill groans, “I just came back from chasing a killer in subzero temperatures and now you want to ridicule me for letting a couple things go that-”

“A couple?” Holden echoes, raising his eyebrow. 

Bill sighs, and strokes Holden’s cheek with his thumb. “What would I do without you?”

“I don’t know.” Holden murmurs, “I really have no idea.”

Bill kisses him again, not giving him a chance to come up with an even slightly accurate answer. It’s not really something he wants to think about. 

Holden doesn’t protest as Bill drags him down to the bed, and they land on the pile of clean, warm towels that haven’t yet been folded. He strips Holden out of his shorts quickly, but puts a hand on his arm when Holden moves to pull the baggy t-shirt off. 

“Leave it.” He murmurs, sinking down to press a kiss to Holden’s bare hip. 

Holden sighs as he sinks back against the sheets. “I think I should wear your clothes more often.” 

Bill doesn’t reply aloud, already too busy nudging between Holden’s thighs and kissing his way down soft warm skin to where need is already growing. He doesn’t have to say anything else to show his appreciation; his once frayed attention is solely focused on Holden, his skin, his shudders, his moans, and any thought of work is faded into the forgotten distance. 


	46. priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: I know you've written them before, but I would die for a sick Holden fic right now! Even if it's just like 100 words of Bill doting all over him in his own gruff, yet sensitive way.

As soon as Bill’s eyes drift open to the thrown back sheets and the empty pillow beside him, his chest seizes with worry. Sunlight is stretching past the blinds and birds are chirping just beyond the window, but the calm environment and his sleep-weighted limbs don’t stop him from sitting bolt upright and rubbing the glaze from his eyes. His gaze goes directly to the door of the master bathroom, expecting to see or at least hear Holden crouched over the toilet, sick for perhaps the tenth time in the past week; but the house is silent, the morning splendor uninterrupted by any kind of heaving. 

Crawling out of bed, Bill peeks into the bathroom just to be certain before shuffling out into the hallway. As he makes his way past the first few closed or empty rooms, his ears pick up on the sound of papers rustling in the study. 

_ Shit. He’s worse than Brian.  _

Sure enough, when Bill comes around the corner of the office door, he sees Holden standing over the desk in his pajamas, going through the stack of case files that Bill had brought home with him for the weekend. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Holden startles, and spins around, his hands clutching around the folder in his hands. 

“I was just looking. I thought I could-”

“Uh-uh.” Bill says, striding across the office to snatch the file out of Holden’s hands. “You’re supposed to be in bed, resting.”

“I feel a lot better this morning.”

“Good enough to go to work?”

“Well, I’m not sure yet, but-”

“Then the answer is ‘no.’” 

Holden crosses his arms over his chest and watches on with an impetuous scowl as Bill gathers up the crime scene photos and starts stuffing them back into their proper folders. 

“This is killing me.” He says, “You’re killing me, Bill.”

“No, the flu is killing you. And you’re encouraging it.”

Holden lets out a sigh, and tilts his head back. “I could help. Even just a little. I know how busy we are, and if I miss even just one or two days of work, you get behind and-”

“Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.” Bill says, slapping the last folder shut, and setting it aside. 

“Are you sure?” Holden whispers, the stubborness in his eyes melting away to concern. 

“Yes.” Bill says, quietly, grasping Holden by the hips to draw him in closer. 

Holden’s eyelashes drop as he settles his hands against Bill’s chest, not resisting the secure embrace around his waist. 

“I feel terrible.” He whispers, “I’ve never been this sick, and I feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

“You’re not. You can’t help it; but you know what you can help?”

Holden looks away, his jaw clenching. 

“Resting. Drinking plenty of fluids. Not unnecessarily stressing yourself with work that can wait.”

“Bill, you know as well as I do that our work can’t wait.”

“That’s why I brought it home. So  _ I  _ can work it on it over the weekend.”

Holden’s chin lowers, his bottom lip giving a faint tremble. 

Sighing quietly, Bill tucks his fingers at Holden’s nape and drags his head down to his shoulder. Holden quickly crumples down against him, fingers clinging to the front of his shirt while he smothers distraught, fevered exhaustion into Bill’s chest. 

Rubbing his back, Bill holds him for a long moment before giving him a reassuring squeeze. 

“Hey, I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet by Monday.” He says, managing a light tone. 

Holden nods against his chest. 

“That’s the spirit. Now, come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

Holden uncoils from his chest, but doesn’t let go of Bill’s hand as they go back down the hallway to the bedroom together. 

Bill stands back while he arranges the pillows against the headboard, and climbs back into bed. Dragging the sheets over Holden’s legs, he sits down on the edge of the bed, and tucks them around his waist. 

“How about you drink some water?” Bill says, motioning to the glass on the nightstand. “And I’ll go make breakfast. What do you feel up for?”

“Don’t you have work to do?” Holden asks, sliding down against the pillows with a dejected expression.

“Yes.” Bill says, cradling his cheek and leaning in to plant a kiss on his forehead. “You first.”

“Priorities, hm?”

“Exactly.”

When Bill pulls back, a faint gleam of life has returned to Holden’s eyes. He smiles, softly. 

“Just some eggs and toast please. I don’t want to try to eat too much.”

“I can do that.”

Their fingers cling together as Bill gets up, and slip apart when he leaves for the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, he’s back with two plates, and Holden seems to perk up a little bit after eating. Bill makes him drink another cup of water before Holden slides back down in the bed, stifling a yawn. 

“Okay, I’ll let you rest.” Bill says, gently feeling his forehead. No temperature, a promising sign. 

He heads for the door, and Holden’s voice makes him pause. “Bill?”

“Yeah?” 

“Thank you.” Holden whispers, his voice muffling below the sheets tucked around his chin. 

“You’re welcome.”

Bill leaves the door open so he can hear down the hallway from the study, and dives into the case files with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. He works for close to two hours before getting up for some water and to check on Holden. 

When he peeks into the bedroom, Holden is fast asleep, his cheek mashed against the pillow and his mouth slipped partially open. Leaning his shoulder against the door frame, Bill watches him for several minutes, the beat of his heart quickening. He’d never wish for Holden to be this sick again, but it’s the first time Holden has ever really let him take care of him like this. At first, he’d been too ill to complain about Bill helping him eat, bathe, and stumble between the bathroom and the bed; now that he can actually walk on his own two feet again without throwing up, Bill would like to think he’s appreciating the special treatment. They’ve been through a lot - dark, depressing times, and times when they thought they hated each other - enough for Bill to cherish the moments when they have each other’s backs; this moment, quiet and peaceful in the sunlight in  _ their  _ home, is one he’d like to remember forever. 


	47. all good things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: bill and holden have been seeing each other for a while and they're doing a decent job at hiding it, but then one day one of them slips and says something that to anyone listen might seem like harmless banter, but wendy notices something else is going on and finally confronts them

Holden tilts his face toward the gust of warm, summer air through the half-open window as the dull, gray edges of the Quantico building emerge from the treeline up ahead and the extended Memorial Day weekend fades into the past. He closes his eyes to cling to the relaxed state of mind he had sunken into over the three-day break for a few more seconds before they’re thrust back into work. 

“Ugh, I can feel the stack of requests growing from here. Why can’t we have one more day off?” He complains. 

Bill’s hand squeezes around Holden’s where they’re attached on the seat between them. 

“That’s life. All good things must come to an end.”

Holden frowns, and casts him a coyly petulant gaze. “You sound like my mom.”

Bill chuckles, and guides Holden’s hand up from the seat leather to press a quick kiss to his knuckles. “Well, not everything.”

Holden bites back a smile, feeling himself blush. 

When they pull into the Quantico parking lot, Holden takes off his seatbelt. 

“I’ll go in first.” He says.

“Okay.” Bill says, pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket. 

Holden interjects his hand before Bill can put the cigarette in his mouth. “Kiss first.”

Bill’s mouth tugs with a slow smile, and he leans over to capture Holden’s mouth in a firm, simmering kiss that lasts much longer than is probably safe. Holden leans into it, breathless and willing, before grudgingly pulling back with a sigh. He quickly glances around the parking lot, but there’s no one within their vicinity to witness the exchange. 

“Fuck.” He mutters, exhaling a slow breath past pursed lips. 

“What?” Bill murmurs, though his eyes are glinting with mischief. 

“You know what.” Holden says, “I’m really going now.”

“I’m five minutes behind you.”

“Okay, see you in there.” 

Holden climbs out of the car, and scans the parking lot again before heading for the BSU entrance. The mild breeze cools the flush on his cheeks, and by the time he makes the long walk and the elevator ride down to the basement, he’s managed to rearrange his expression into one of nonchalance. 

When he arrives at his desk, the case files that he’d been complaining about are stacked about a foot high in his incoming tray. The outgoing tray is significantly smaller, a daunting discrepancy that speaks to how the rest of the week is going to go. 

Bill comes in five minutes later just like he’d said and walks behind Holden’s desk to get to the coffee stand in the corner. His hand discreetly grazes the width of Holden’s shoulders, sending a delicious buzz through his veins that makes his knees go weak. Holden shoots a stern glance over his shoulder, grateful that he’s seated. Bill’s mouth purses against a devious smile as he pours himself a cup of coffee, and heads into his office. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Holden turns to the incoming requests. It takes him close to an hour to get his thoughts in order and focused on the task at hand while his mind and leaping heart keep wanting to sift back through the warm, sunlit memories of the long weekend. 

_ Six months.  _ He reminds himself.  _ It’s only been six months.  _

He knows he shouldn’t be entirely getting his hopes up about the longevity of this relationship, especially when their close working relationship could be irreparably damaged in the fallout should things go wrong. They should be taking it slow. Neither of them have dated another man before, or even attempted to hide a relationship from nearly everyone in their life. They’ve been doing a pretty good job of concealing it in Holden’s opinion, but the task is growing more difficult with every day that passes. It’s nearly impossible to focus on work when the object of your affection is just across the office, a perilous distraction of longing gazes, secretive smiles, and whispered exchanges when no one is looking. 

Two hours later, Holden has the mountain of requests separated out into three categories: urgent, escalating, and minor. He carries the stack of urgents into Bill’s office. 

“I’m done sorting.” He says, entering without knocking. 

“Okay, let’s take a look.” Bill says, waving him closer. 

Circling the desk, Holden sets the stack in front of Bill, and perches on the edge of the desk. 

“I’ve identified the most urgent, and we have two cases here that I think require on-the-ground assistance.” Holden says, taking the two folders off the top. “You and I can take one, and Gregg and Jim can take the other one.”

“Sounds good.” Bill says, taking a drag of his cigarette and perusing Holden’s position on his desk with a contained smile. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. You just look good up there.”

Holden glances away, blushing again. He can’t help it. Bill’s appreciative gaze triggers instant heat, a warm flood that journeys from his belly and outward. 

“Where are the cases?” Bill asks, clearing his throat. 

“We’ve got on in Michigan and another in Florida.” Holden says, “Miami, actually.”

“Mm, Florida golf course.”

“Florida hotel room.” Holden adds, flipping open the Miami folder with a disinterested gaze. “Ocean views.”

Bill’s mouth seeps with smoke. “You got something again Michigan?”

“The beaches aren’t as great.”

“We’re supposed to be there working.” 

“Says you, talking about golf courses.”

Bill takes his reading glasses off, and sizes Holden up with a penetrating gaze. “Who says we’re going to have time to visit the ocean?”

“I don’t know. Once the case is over? We could take a few extra days. We deserve a vacation every once in awhile, don’t we?”

“In Miami?”

“Sure. Why not? Some place you’d rather be?”

“Not necessarily.” Bill says, leaning forward to tap ashes into the tray. He lowers his voice, “I don’t care where it is as long as the bed is comfortable.”

Holden shifts on the edge of the desk, feeling his veins going warm and tingly. Their gazes hold, both of them knowing they shouldn’t be talking like this at work yet unable to quell the teasing affection. 

“So, you don’t care?” Holden whispers, his voice slightly trembling. “Miami or Michigan?”

Before Bill can answer, a sharp knock on the door jolts them both out of the suggestive layers of conversation. Holden glances over his shoulder to see Wendy leaning in the doorway, and quickly hops off the edge of the desk. 

“Sorry. Was I interrupting something?” Wendy asks, her eyebrow arching. 

“No, of course not.” Holden says, feeling his face grow hot again. “We were, um … we were just discussing the urgent cases.”

“Care to share it with the rest of the team?”

“Yes. Let’s get everyone in the conference room.” Holden says. 

Wendy gazes suspiciously at them for a long moment before leaning away from the door frame. “All right. I’ll get everyone together.”

“Thanks, Wendy.” Bill says. 

When she walks away, Bill shoots him a glare. 

“What? You were the one facing the door.” Holden says, gesturing vehemently. “How long was she standing there for?”

“I don’t know. You were the one sitting on my desk.” 

“Let’s just go.” Holden says, shaking his head. 

In the conference room, their other co-workers provide a conversational buffer, but Holden can feel Wendy assessing them critically from across the table. He feels sick. 

Wendy is smart, intuitive; if anyone was going to figure out what’s going on between him and Bill based on behavioral clues alone, it would be her; but she’s also the last person he would want to expose himself to, aside from perhaps Ted or someone in upper management, because she’s the most honest and exacting. He values her opinions and respect, and he has no doubt that she would highly disapprove of an office romance. 

The next day, Holden expresses his worries to Bill over lunch in the cafeteria. 

“What if she knows?”

“Look, Holden. I’ve known Wendy a long time. She isn’t going to say anything.” Bill says, “She’s not a tattler.”

“Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?”

“Yeah, but it’s nothing she can prove.”

The conversation does little to ease Holden’s nerves, and ends up being entirely insignificant. Two days later, everyone is packing up to leave for the day when Wendy sticks her head out of her office, and asks for Bill and Holden to come in for a moment. 

They exchange anxious glances before Bill rearranges his face into superb composure, and nods for Holden to follow him. The last intern exits out the exterior door just as they slip into the office. 

“Shut the door.” Wendy says, though no one is around to hear them.

Bill eases the door shut. “What’s this about?”

Wendy sets aside the transcript and notebook in front of her, and turns to face them both directly. 

“We’ve all worked together for quite some time now.” She says, her tone calm and steady. “I’d like to think that means we all trust and respect one another to some degree.”

“Of course.” Holden says. 

“Wonderful. Then, I’ll just ask this question directly, and expect an honest answer.” She says, spreading her hands benevolently. 

Bill and Holden trade nervous glances. Bill’s jaw clenches and his hands clasp tightly behind his back as he turns his gaze back to Wendy. 

“Okay. Ask away.”

Wendy leans forward to lace her hands in front of her, and gathers a deep breath. When her gaze rises back up to shift back and forth between them, her expression lacks any type of nonchalance or levity. 

“Is there something going on between you two?” She asks. 

Holden feels his stomach drop. Despite his years in hostage negotiation and behavioral science, he can’t conjure a quickly manufactured expression of calm or a believable lie. He’s sure he’s already given away the answer by looking away from her decisive gaze, fidgeting with his hands, and turning red. 

“Going on?” Bill echoes, managing an attempt at evasion. 

“Yes.” Wendy says, coolly. “Romantically. Sexually.”

Holden almost chokes. “Wendy, this is …”

“Inappropriate?” She finishes, her eyebrow raising. “More inappropriate than the two of you spending more time staring at each other and talking than actually working for the past few months?”

“Jesus, Wendy.” Bill curses, quietly. 

“That wasn’t exactly an answer.”

“We’ve all been working hard.” Bill says, “We’re busier than we’ve ever been. I find it a little insulting for you to imply that we’re not pulling our weight just because we’re …”

Holden lifts his gaze from the carpet to stare at Bill agape. It isn’t an affirmative, but it’s close enough. He hadn’t expected Bill to give up the truth so easily. 

“So, there is something going on.” Wendy concludes. 

Bill sighs, and rubs a hand over his forehead. “Yes. Happy? Is this interrogation over?”

“Not quite.”

“C’mon, Wendy. Our personal life isn’t really any of your business.” 

“It is my business if it affects my job - all of our jobs.” Wendy says, her tone softening. “I’m not angry.”

“Well, thank God for that.” Bill says, putting up his hands. “That’s the all-clear I was searching for.”

“Okay.” Wendy says, her eyes narrowing. “Before you start getting defensive, I’d just like to say, I care about both of you very much.”

Silence settles. Holden can see Bill’s prickling posture relax a bit, and feels his own stomach ease its churning. 

“In fact, I want you to be happy.” Wendy continues, “If that means with each other, fine. I’m simply concerned.”

“Concerned?”

“You know my stance on sexuality. I don’t discriminate, but other people do. A lot of people here at the FBI do, in fact. I don’t think I need to tell either of you what would happen if someone other than me found out what was going on.”

“We don’t need to be lectured.” Bill says, “We both know what the stakes are.”

“Then, consider being more careful? More discreet, perhaps?”

“Discreet?” Holden says, “I thought we were being …”

Wendy casts him a dubious gaze, and his throat knots.

“Careful.” He finishes, weakly. 

Wendy chuckles softly, her rigid facade cracking to expose amusement. 

“What?” Bill demands. 

“I suggest you try harder.” She says, rising from her desk and gathering her things. “If I had to guess based solely on your behavior, I’d say this has been going on for five, six months?”

“Six.” Holden whispers. 

“Hm.” She murmurs, her mouth tipping. She swings her gaze over to Bill. “And you, Bill - I expected more from you.”

“Me?” 

“Come on, you made it easy for me. Obvious, actually.” She says, patting him on the shoulder as she walks past him toward the door. 

Bill sputters for a moment before pressing his mouth shut. His brow pinches with an irritated frown. 

Wendy pauses with her hand on the door knob. 

“Truly,” She says, casting a fond glance over her shoulder at both of them. “I’m happy for you. Just, please, be more careful.”

Before either of them can conjure a response, she slips out of the office, and lets the door swing shut behind her. 

Bill shifts his gaze to stare at Holden disbelief. 

“Did that just happen?” Holden whispers. 

“Yeah, I think it did.”

They stare quietly at one another for a long moment until Bill starts to chuckle. 

“What?” Holden demands. “You find this funny?”

“Yeah, a little bit.”

“You’re unbelievable. What if she  _ had  _ been angry?”

“I told you she wasn’t going to tell anyone.” Bill says, reaching over to catch Holden by the wrist and reel him in. “You know what this means though?”

“What?” Holden asks, scowling as he braces his hands against Bill’s chest. 

“No more coming into my office and climbing up on my desk.” Bill murmurs, leaning in to kiss him slowly on the mouth. 

“Hey,” Holden protests, tipping his mouth away from the tender gesture. “No more of that either.” 

“Nobody’s here.” Bill says, snaring Holden’s lower lip in a kiss. 

Holden resists for a moment before melting into the kiss. Their lips stroke both and forth for a long moment, and he’s rendered dizzy again. They break apart with a muted gasp from the back of his throat, his lips prickling with friction. 

“Come on.” Bill murmurs. “Let’s go home.”


	48. start again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: I’d love to see bill properly apologize to holden (and viceversa) post-season2. Maybe holden has to call in sick bc he has a bad episode and bill goes to his house to check up on him even tho they left things weird...

At eight o’clock in the morning, the July humidity and baking sunlight are already making for an uncomfortable day of temperatures hovering somewhere in the high eighties. Bill rolls down his window on the drive to work, hoping that the bluster of the wind will ease the perspiration trickling down his temples and hold exhaustion at bay. 

The past month since they returned from Atlanta has been rocky to say the least. It feels like he’s still jet-lagged from running back and forth between Georgia and Virginia, staying up late into the night for bridge surveillance followed by trying to stay on his feet during normal hours when he was home on the weekends. Now that he’s sleeping alone, a situation that doesn’t look like it’ll be changing in the near future, he isn’t getting much more rest than he was in Atlanta. 

When he arrives at work, Holden’s desk is vacant for the second day in a row. It isn’t like him to not come to work, but Bill had brushed aside his concern yesterday. Everyone is allowed a sick day. Two days in a row is enough to roust that logical explanation from his mind. 

Knocking Wendy’s door, Bill pokes his head into her office. 

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” She says, looking up from her paperwork. 

“Is Holden not coming today?” 

“He called in sick again.” Wendy says, her expression reserved yet quietly concerned. 

“Oh,” Bill says, frowning. He hesitates a moment before pressing, “Do you know what it is? The flu, or …?”

“I don’t know. He sounded tired.”

“Okay.” 

They share a worried gaze for a moment before Wendy sets down her pen, and waves for him to shut the door. Bill slips inside, and approaches her desk. 

“You think it’s more than that?” He asks. 

“It could be some physical illness, but …” Wendy says, shaking her head. “He wouldn’t tell us even if it wasn’t. Have you noticed anything different about his behavior since you came back from Atlanta?”

Bill sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, but to be honest, I’ve been a little wrapped up in my own issues.”

“That’s understandable. But, I have to say, I’m concerned.”

“You think one of us should check up on him?”

Wendy’s head cocks slightly, her gaze growing more decisive. Leaning back in her chair, she loosely folds her arms. 

Bill sighs. “You want  _ me  _ to check up on him?”

“I tried to talk to him. He wasn’t interested.”

“Why do you think me talking to him would be any different? We had our fair share of disagreements about Atlanta, and he was never happy with how the case ended. I’ve tried to tell him - there’s nothing else we could have done. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Have you tried listening?”

Bill glances away, clenching his jaw against a hasty retort. He isn’t one to dwell on the past. Most of the time, their energy is better spent looking to the future and learning from mistakes. But Holden hasn’t wanted to hear any of that since the cases of the dead children were officially closed. His idealistic belief system had taken a beating down in Atlanta, and he can’t let anything go. 

“Fine.” Bill says, at last. “I’ll try to talk to him.”

“Try?”

“What do you want me to do, Wendy? Go knocking down his door and make him prove to me whether or not he’s really sick?”

Wendy gazes coolly at him, and the answer is already clear. 

“Jesus.” Bill mutters. 

“Sometimes people require more than a light touch and distance.”

“I’m not his parent. It’s not up to me to teach him about tough love.”

“But he does respect you and wants your approval. Don’t try to tell me I’m wrong.”

Bill gazes at her for a long moment. He wants to argue, but her somber gaze tells him it might be about as worthwhile as beating his head into a wall. 

“Okay. I’ll go over there tonight. Happy?”

He turns to leave the office, but her voice, softer this time, makes him pause. 

“Bill. Please, try. I mean really try.”

Their gazes hold another moment before he gives a slight nod and slips out of the office. He knows she’s right, but a part of him wonders if it’s too late - if the damage is already done, and everything he might think to say could tear the chasm between him and Holden even wider. 

~

For several hours, Holden watches the sunlight slanting through his blinds stretch across the carpet, shrinking and growing as it dials its way across the sky. He only moves from the couch to go to the bathroom. He ate breakfast, then forgot about lunch and dinner; he isn’t hungry anyway. Watching the television play commercial after commercial, rerun after daytime soap opera rerun, he can’t find the will to move, not even to get up and take a shower. 

He’d started out the day with a valiant attempt at going to work, only to be struck by a vicious panic attack the second he started looking through his closet for something to wear. He didn’t want to call off a second day in a row, but the way things stood, he saw no choice. He couldn’t face the thought of going to work, and having another attack in front of Bill, Wendy, and everyone else. 

As the sunlight creeps longer and more golden across his apartment, he wonders if this is what the rest of his future looks like. Crippled by anxiety, reduced to a mere shadow of himself by torments he can’t anticipate or control. Unable to get up off the couch because he can’t breathe without thinking, and how is he supposed to work if he can’t think or breathe? 

It’s sunset when the shrill ring of the telephone jolts him out of half-asleep dissociation. He hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. The apartment is almost entirely dark as he stumbles off the couch and into the kitchen to grab the telephone. 

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Mr. Ford. I have a man here who says he’s a friend of yours, wants to be let up to your apartment?” The doorman replies. 

“Who?”

“Bill Tench.”

Holden clutches the phone tighter, his heart suddenly hammering when it had only been slogging through the motions moments ago. His thoughts rise up out of the lazy, disconnected marshland of depression as he realizes just how badly this looks - two days straight of not working, lying on the couch, not showering, and not eating. 

“Should I let him up?” The doorman asks after several beats of silence. 

“I, uh …”

“He said to tell you he brought you something.”

Holden frowns. “Oh, uh … okay?”

“Should I let him up?”

“Yeah.” Holden breathes out. 

He hangs up the telephone, and leans against the kitchen counter for a long moment. When he called off a second day in a row, he figured Wendy would be speculating to Bill about the reasons why, but he hadn’t ever believed Bill would show up here. Their relationship has been strained to say the least since they got back from Atlanta. Bill doesn’t openly resent him and their professional balance has maintained despite the stress, but it’s the little moments of silence that Holden notices. When they don’t have anything work-related to talk about, it’s like Bill doesn’t know how to interact with him anymore. And now he’s here, at almost nine o’clock at night, invading Holden’s private space with what? Convoluted concern? Some awkward attempt at pretending he cares? 

Holden breaks away from the counter when he hears the knock at his door. He pulls the door open, and Bill is standing on the other side with a Tupperware bowl in his hands. 

“Hi.” He says.

“Hi.” Holden replies, slowly, frowning as he notes the bowl. “What’s this?”

“Wendy said you were sick. I brought you soup.”

“Oh.”

Holden doesn’t exactly open the door; but Bill walks into the apartment, and Holden doesn’t try to stop him. Handing the Tupperware bowl to him, Bill shuffles into the entryway where he pauses with his hands tucked in his pockets, undoubtedly surveying the state of the apartment - the drawn curtains, the coffee table littered with day-old water cups and dirty plates, the couch piled with wrinkled blankets. 

“Thanks for this.” Holden says, holding up the bowl. 

“You’re welcome. How are you feeling?”

“Uh, better.”

Their gazes hold, and Holden can see Bill quietly analyzing him, picking apart the lies to get to the truth. 

“Think you’ll be back tomorrow?” Bill asks. 

“We’ll see. I thought I was coming this morning, but I … I got sick as I was getting ready so …”

Bill nods, slowly. 

“I better put this in the fridge.” Holden says, gesturing to the soup.

He escapes into the kitchen where he momentarily holds the refrigerator door open to cool the rising sweat on his brow. 

“What was it? The flu?” Bill says, the proximity of his voice making Holden whirl around. 

Holden leans back against the refrigerator as Bill wanders farther into the kitchen, and leans against the adjacent counter. His eyes are pale blue in the faint, dusky light of sunset, the scarce yellow glow of the bulb above the sink. 

When Holden doesn’t answer, he glances away, his jawline rippling with tension. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better. We miss you at work.”

“ _ You  _ miss me?” Holden asks, and it comes out more strained than he’d meant. 

“For what it’s worth, yeah.”

Holden nods, sizing up the small frown on Bill’s brow and the discomfort in the set of his shoulders, the twitch of his hands at his sides. 

“Well, uh .. I better get going.” He says, finally. “I don’t want to keep you from resting.”

Just before he turns to leave, Holden sees a flicker of something gentler in his eyes, something far more flinching and internalized - guilt? 

“Bill.” His name jumps from Holden’s mouth before Holden can reconsider. 

“Yeah?” Bill asks, quickly turning back to meet his gaze. 

“It wasn’t the flu.”

Silence settles over the kitchen as that admission hangs in the air. Holden clenches his hands into fists at his sides, battling back a rift of anxiety. He’s not sure why he feels compelled now to tell Bill the truth when he’s been concealing the severity of his struggles ever since Atlanta. Maybe because no one has ever brought him soup when he’s sick before, or because he misses Bill’s company. Maybe because he’s just too fucking tired to keep up the facade much longer. 

Bill’s throat shifts with a thick swallow. He takes a slight step closer to Holden’s, his eyes clinging softly to the tremor working its way through Holden’s body. 

“It wasn’t?”

Holden shakes his head, biting at his lower lip to suppress the sudden clutch of emotion lumping in the back of his throat. 

Bill moves slowly, but before Holden knows it, the space between them is closed. Bill lowers his head and closes his eyes for a moment before turning them back to Holden with fresh resolve. 

“How bad is it?”

Holden feels tears prick the corners of his eyes. “Well, I laid on the couch all day so …”

“And yesterday?”

Holden nods again, his throat knotting harder. 

“Fuck, Holden. Why wouldn’t you tell me it was this bad? I could have-” Bill stops suddenly, as if he can hear how critical his tone is becoming. 

Holden lowers his head. Part of him wants Bill to yell at him. Tell him how stupid he is for trying to handle this on his own. Force him to break down. But another part, hidden somewhere deep inside him, doesn’t want to be touched or shoved into daylight. It just wants to be heard, acknowledged as real beyond the hollow area of his skull. 

“I’m sorry.” Bill says, finally, his voice a low, tremulous tone that Holden doesn’t recognize. 

“It isn’t your fault that-”

“No. Holden, I mean … I’m sorry about everything. I had a lot of shit going on personally in Atlanta, but I … I wasn’t there for you, not like I should have been.”

“Bill, no. You had your family and-”

“Would you stop? Just let me say this?” Bill says, frustration bleeding into his tone.

Holden carefully meets his eyes. He hardly believes he’s hearing Bill apologize, but he can see the evidence - the real, internal, visceral evidence - gleaming in his eyes. 

“I was a shitty partner.” Bill says, “Okay? I think you and I can both agree on that. No matter what I had going on at home, I wasn’t honest with you. I left you in the dark. I don’t fucking blame you for being upset or not trusting me anymore.”

“I  _ do _ trust you.” 

“Really? Then why am I here, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on with you?” 

Holden presses his fingertips to his tear ducts, and lets out a shaky sigh. “Because …”

“Look, I can’t understand what you’re going through, but I wish you felt like you could at least tell me. I’m your partner, but more than that I’m your friend - at least I used to be. I’d like to think that you can rely on me.”

Holden nods, swallowing back the rising emotion. “I’d like that, too.”

“Good, I’m glad we agree.”

“I should say something, too, though.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a two-way street. I wasn’t the best partner either.” Holden says, “I was convinced of my profile. Maybe I got tunnel vision, or … Either way, I didn’t want to listen to advice, and now I’m not sure if we really caught the killer or not.”

“We did everything we could.”

“I know. It was out of our hands. But maybe if I hadn’t been so focused on my original profile, we could have explored other avenues while we had the time. Now there really isn’t anything we can do. That’s part of what’s making all of this so …”

He gestures vaguely to his disheveled appearance with a weary sigh. 

“You can’t lay all the blame at your own feet.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

“I don’t know, Bill. I try not to think about it, but I wake up every morning and it’s right there - the first thing I think about when I open my eyes. Did we do enough? Is some child killer still out there, and what if another kid dies because of how we handled - or didn’t handle - the investigation?”

“Okay, so you made a few mistakes.” Bill says, “I don’t think that means you should crucify yourself. They had fiber evidence from Williams’ house. He did at least two of them. I refuse to believe we put an innocent man behind bars.”

“But what about the rest of them?”

“You can’t save everyone, Holden.” Bill says, gently putting a hand on Holden’s arm. “You’re not beholden to the entire world. We do the best with what we have, and hope it makes a difference. And if that means putting away one more guy than what was on the streets yesterday, then we’ve done our job. We have to take the victories as they come, and learn from the mistakes. That’s how we get better in life.”

Holden lowers his head, quickly clasping a hand over his face as tears rush abruptly and hotly to his eyes. He’s been telling himself the same thing for weeks now, but his own mental attempts at assuaging his guilt only seem to echo falsey back at him. Bill’s words sound revolutionary even if they aren’t new. They’re proof outside of his own mind that he isn’t the terrible person his anxiety has made him out to be. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Bill says, clutching his shoulder reassuringly. 

Holden sucks in a breath, trying to stem the surging emotion, but Bill’s touch on him only encourages it to break free. He leans forward, pressing his forehead into Bill’s chest as the tears come, squeezing forcefully from his eyelids. He does his best to swallow them down, but a few manage to spill down his cheeks and drop to the tile at their feet. 

Bill quietly rubs his back. He doesn’t say anything, but Holden can feel the way his chest staggers with anxious breaths beneath his forehead. Neither of them had been expecting this honesty, this raw excision of stifled, festering emotions. 

“Come on, it’s gonna be all right.” Bill says, at length as Holden’s crying abates. “You’re resilient, more than a lot of people I know. You can get through this.”

Holden slowly lifts his head, wiping at his cheeks and succeeding only in smearing the tears around. He nods, drawing in a hitched breath. 

“Thanks, Bill.” 

“I mean it.”

Before Holden can stop himself, he rises on his toes to wrap his arms around Bill’s neck in a tight hug. Bill gives a surprised grunt before gingerly putting his arms around Holden’s waist. Holden squeezes his eyes shut, clinging onto the contact for as long as he can. When Bill gives his back a reassuring pat, he rescinds the embrace. 

“What are you doing after this?” Holden asks, wiping at his cheeks. 

“Nothing.” 

“Do you want to stay for a little bit?” Holden asks, hopefully. 

“Sure.” Bill says, a smile tugging at his mouth. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You take yourself to the shower first. No offense, but I can tell you’ve been home sick for two days straight. I can smell it.” 

Holden gives a choked laugh. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just go take care of yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Breakfast.” Holden says, managing a sheepish smile. 

“Jesus.” Bill says, shaking his head. “Go get a bath, and I’ll warm up the soup for you.”

“Thank you.” Holden murmurs. 

Bill leans against the counter, his mouth tugging with a wry smile as Holden sidles past him toward the hallway. When he slips into the bathroom, he leans back against the door to push it shut, and squeezes his eyes closed with a bubbling sense of relief. 

Worse than the threat of a wrongful conviction and his own self-doubt had always been the fear that he’d go into work one day and have a panic attack in front of everyone. Not just everyone, but Bill; and not only did he fear losing Bill’s respect, he feared that Bill might never understand his condition. Of course, Bill can never really know what living with this constant anxiety feels like, but he’s here now, offering his support. His presence can’t entirely mitigate everything that’s happened, all of the wounds, all of the damage, or all of the guilt, but it’s all Holden had ever wanted; and it’s a start. 


	49. the next ten years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: holden's thinking of running a marathon or something, and it gets bill thinking about just how young holden is and some insecurities appear. what's their future like? wouldn't holden be better off with someone who could actually match his rhythm?

Golden pink sunset stretches across the sky, making the red rubber of the track glow a burnt orange, the grass a glistening, knife-edged green. The summer heat has slacked off into a comfortable warmth that’s accompanied by the slight breeze that cools that faint sweat on Bill’s brow. 

He glances down at the stopwatch as Holden emerges from the glowing haze of sunlight, running at a steady clip around the final curve of the track before he reaches the starting point again. Dressed in track shorts and a gray Academy sweatshirt, he’s sweating harder in the July heat than Bill’s stationary position could ever hope to achieve. 

Bill squints against the sunlight, once again baffled by how much Holden enjoys this activity. Wendy had first suggested some type of exercise to him to help deal with his anxiety, and Holden had taken to the task like a fish to water. For the first few months, he would come out where to the Academy track to run for his own enjoyment, but now that he considers himself an accomplished runner, he’s taken to training for a marathon at the end of the month. The preparation is taking up a lot of time, much more than Bill had expected; and his only recourse to steal as much private time with Holden as possible is to park his ass here beside the track with the stopwatch. 

As Holden drops down out of his run into a jog, and finally to a staggered halt, Bill jabs the timer on the stopwatch. 

“How long as was that?” Holden asks, his voice hoarse and fractured. 

“Seven minutes, twenty-five seconds.”

“Shit.” Holden whispers, leaning forward to clutch his knees. 

“You’re unsatisfied with running a mile in seven minutes?” Bill asks, incredulously. 

“And twenty-five seconds.” 

“I thought a marathon was about endurance not speed.” 

“It is. It’s a personal goal.”

Bill leans over to grab the water bottle from the grass, and tosses it to Holden. 

Catching it against his chest, Holden straightens and takes a stumbled step backwards as he lifts the bottle to his mouth. 

Bill watches him quietly, half-appreciating the sweat drenched ringlets plastered to his forehead and the way his throat glistens in the fading sunlight. 

“Well, I know one thing for sure. You’d leave me in the dust.” Bill says.

Holden drags the bottle away from his mouth, leaving his lips slickly pink. He swipes a hand across his dribbling chin, and saunters closer to where Bill is seated on the folding chair in the grass. 

“You could join me, you know.” He says. 

“Running?”

“Yeah. Anyone can do it.”

“What? So I can get out there and humiliate myself? It wouldn’t be pretty.”

“Well, no one starts out an expert.” 

“Holden, we practically live together.” Bill says, gesturing to himself. “You are fully aware of what I can and cannot do.”

Holden rolls his eyes. “Oh, Christ. Is this about the other night when I wanted round two and you weren’t up for it?”

Bill scowls, “Okay, you didn’t have to drag that into it.”

“You were about to.” 

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Fine.” Holden says, capping the water bottle, and tossing it in the grass. “I’m going to do one more lap around the track to cool off and then we can go.”

“You want me to time that, too?”

Holden casts him a snide glance before spinning around and taking off toward the track again at a steady jog. 

Bill frowns watching him sprint into the melted glow of the sunset, his body shimmering like some moving work of art beneath the colors of the sky. It’s easy to forget that he’s going to be thirty-two in a few months, technically middle-aged, when he’s so virile and energetic. It’s like he has a bottomless well of initiative and drive, and his body … Well, Bill has been witness to all of the things his beautiful, toned, young body can do and endure. Running a seven minute mile is just the tip of the iceberg. 

Bill tries to set aside his insecurities as Holden circles the far end of the track and starts back towards the finishing line. He isn’t self-absorbed. He cares about his appearance insofar as it pertains to personal hygiene and professionalism. His current job doesn’t require extreme physical feats like running a seven minute mile or even running at all so why should it matter? Holden has his own personal goals and hobbies that he doesn’t necessarily have to share. It shouldn’t matter, but he knows why it does. 

When Holden comes off the track again, Bill hands him the towel to wipe the sweat from his brow. 

“Ready to go home?”

“Yeah.” 

Bill gathers their things, and leads them across the yard, through the student parking, and all the way back to their lot in front of the BSU building. The walk is long and silent, some disagreement rippling underneath that he doesn’t feel like addressing. Once they reach the car, Bill rolls down the windows, turns on the stereo, and lights a cigarette. Holden leans toward the breeze, the sweet tang of perspiration blustering in the air alongside the summer breeze. Bill figures they’ll both just let it go, but ten minutes into the drive, Holden turns back to Bill. 

“Is something the matter with you?” 

“What? No.”

Holden’s hands fidget in his lap. “I can tell when you’re pissed. Why don’t you just say it?”

“Holden, I’m beat. It’s almost eight and we’re just now going home after working for ten hours and-”

“Oh, is that why? Because I’m forcing you to stay out late?”

“You’re not forcing me.”

“I told you that you didn’t have to come. I can work a stopwatch on my own.”

“Yeah? Then what do you need me for?”

The hasty retort slashes coldly through the humid air, leaving them both simmering in choked silence for a long moment. Bill flicks cigarette ashes out the window, annoyed with himself. There’s no basis for this argument, but they’re having it anyway. 

“I don’t know what your fucking problem is.” Holden mutters, “Are you just mad that I have an interest that doesn’t involve you?”

“No, of course not. You’re allowed to have your own hobbies-”

“Oh, you’re  _ allowing _ me to have this hobby. How generous of you.”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

They fall into silence again, but Bill can sense the electric hum of anger and the threat of hurt feelings arising. 

_ Just fucking apologize.  _ He tells himself, trying to tamp down the bubbling insecurities that seem to multiply with every exchange. But his jaw stays stubbornly clamped shut. 

The next ten minutes pass in stifled silence until they reach Bill’s house. Holden’s car is parked in the driveway where he had left it over the weekend when a sleepover turned into a five-night affair. Bill figures that little foray is about to end right here. 

He throws the car into park, but lets the engine idle as they sit quietly, stewing. 

“Okay.” Holden says, finally. “I’m sorry I brought up the other night - the round two thing. That was uncalled for.”

“It isn’t that.”

“Really?” Holden asks, his gaze swinging across the car to strike Bill with withering severity. 

Bill takes a slow drag of his cigarette and focuses on the yard darkening in the impending dusk. 

“Bill, I have never had an issue with your age and my age, and-”

“Please, just stop.” Bill says, holding up a hand. The humiliation is already curling up his chest in fiery fingers, clutching at the back of his throat with debilitating force. The fact that he can’t suppress it is just as bad as the initial flinch of insecurity. 

“Fine. You don’t want to talk to me?” Holden says, impatiently. He unlatches the door and shoves it open with his shoulder. “I think I’m just gonna go home, and you can call me when you get your head out of your ass.”

Bill flinches as the door slams shut behind him, jarring the entire vehicle. He watches with a sickening feeling dropping to the pit of his stomach as Holden storms around the hood of the car towards his own vehicle. 

_ Get out and stop him, you stupid fucking idiot.  _

Growling a sound of frustration, Bill rips off his seatbelt, and climbs out of the car just as Holden reaches the hood of his Nova. 

“Wait.” 

Holden’s determined pace cuts to a halt. They stare at one another in the falling dusk, a quiet standoff that Bill knows Holden won’t be breaking; he’s waiting for Bill to speak and be honest. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Bill puts his head down, and closes the space between them in a few strides. Holden turns slowly to face him, not resisting as Bill catches him by the hand. 

“I’m sorry.” Bill says, quietly. 

Holden nods. Still waiting. 

“Come on.” Bill says, scoffing against the clutch of emotion in the back of his throat. “Don’t tell me you  _ never  _ think about it.”

“I mean, yes. Objectively, I’ve thought about it because it’s a basic, indisputable fact.” Holden says, “I said I don’t have an issue with it.”

“Look, these past few months have been great.” Bill says, “But I think it would be a little selfish of me to not encourage you to think about your future. What do the next ten years look like? Don’t you want someone who can keep up with you? And are you going to be happy with this decision when our age difference really does start catching up with us?”

Holden’s brow furrows. “That’s a little pessimistic, don’t you think?”

“I’m just trying to be honest.”

Holden glances away for a moment, his eyes squinting against the fading light. Bill can tell that he’s seriously considering the conversation, and that acknowledgement alone eases some of the tightness in his chest. 

“You want honesty?” Holden says, his voice softening as he shifts his gaze gently back to Bill’s. 

“Yeah. Always.”

“Fine. Then this is the truth - I don’t care about our age difference, or round two. Some days I don’t even care about round one. That’s not what this is about, and it’s a little reductive to say that it is.”

Bill lets out a sigh and glances away, but Holden presses closer, cradling Bill’s chin in his hand to guide his eyes back up. 

“I know what the next ten years look like.” Holden murmurs, “Maybe not exactly, but I do know one thing - you’re here, with me. Whether you are running down a track with me or I’m pushing you a fucking wheelchair.”

Bill chokes on an unbidden laugh as Holden’s mouth stretches into a fond smile. He wraps both arms around Holden’s waist, suddenly not caring whether someone driving down the street could see the intimate embrace. He just wants to make this moment last - the moment when Holden melted the last of his fears and insecurities.

“Okay?” Holden whispers, clutching his cheek tighter. “I don’t want someone else. I want  _ you _ .”

Bill nods, trying to find a reply in the tangled knot of relief and joy in the back of his throat. 

Holden kisses him quickly on the mouth, a swift, reassuring gesture that the whole street might have seen, before he wraps his arms around Bill’s neck. 

Bill buries his face in Holden’s neck, impressing the warmth of his body and his embrace down into his quivering soul. When he draws in a deep breath, he can smell summertime and sweat on his skin. 

Clearing his throat, Bill draws back. “Do you, uh … do you want to get a shower first, before you leave?”

Holden chuckles softly. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Okay, let’s go in. It’s really warm out here.” Bill says, wiping sweat from his own temple. 

Holden clutches his hand as they climb the steps to the front porch. As they reach the door, he whispers, “Bill?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to leave.” 

Bill purses back a smile. “No?”

“No. Can I spend the night again… and possibly use your washer and dryer for my work clothes?”

“Of course.” 

They share a quiet smile before Bill unlocks the door and lets them inside. Holden’s fingers curl tighter around his hand, drawing Bill down the hallway towards the bathroom without another word. They move quietly, deftly through the house, muted anticipation rising. The sun has already set, golden light touching the door for the last time tonight. 


	50. downpour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from ashtheironbat: I keep thinking of Holden's car breaking down in the rain, and he has to make his way to a payphone, and he calls Bill, because he doesn't know who else to call. I keep thinking about Bill being worried he'll get sick because he's soaking wet.

Holden’s father had instilled a healthy respect for car maintenance in him from a young age, and he considers himself a responsible person when it comes to his possessions; but some things just can’t be foreseen. There were no warning signs, no little lights popping up on his dash to tell him that something was wrong, but still, as his car sputters out on the side of the road, he figures this is somehow his fault. 

It’s late evening on a Friday, the ragged conclusion of a long week out of state on consult. It’s no more than a thirty minute drive between the airport and his apartment, but his little Nova, which up until this very moment had been trustworthy and faithful, couldn’t make it that far. On top of everything else, it’s raining. Not a mist or a drizzle, but a deluge that rolls from the rumbling sky in unrelenting gusts that don’t appear to be stopping anytime soon.

As the engine clicks and dies on the gravel shoulder of the road, Holden leans his forehead against the steering wheel to brace back a wave of tearful dismay. Not only does he usually leave car repair up to knowledgeable professionals, but he’d also been looking forward to crawling into his own bed after an arduous week spent tracking down a pedophile and murderer. 

A rift of anger rises up his sudden despair, and he leans back to strike the wheel with the heel of his hand. 

“Fuck!” The curse chokes from his throat, punctuating the steady drum of rain against the metal exterior of the car. 

He breathes heavily into the silence for a long moment until the initial rush of panic and alarm fades. He tries to think clearly about his options. He should call someone. But who? It’s much too late for shops to be open, and he doesn’t want to call the police department and create a scene. He could call a cab, but that might take awhile. And before he can pursue any of those options, he has to find a phone to even call from first.

Holden rubs his tired eyes, and scans the street. 

_ He knows where he is. Just think … Payphone. The corner of Mission Street and Jackson Road. Two blocks away.  _

“Fuck.” Holden says, aloud, again. 

He’s exhausted, and he doesn’t want to walk two blocks in the pouring down rain; but what other choice does he have?

Gathering his collar up around his neck, Holden draws in a deep breath, and shoulders his way out of the vehicle. The rain is coming down so hard that he’s almost instantly soaked, his hair drenched and plastered to his head, his trench coat barely concealing his shivering body from the biting gust of cold wind and stinging droplets. 

For a moment, he thinks about climbing back into his car and waiting it out, but he doesn’t want to face the possibility of the rainstorm persisting through the night. Putting his head down, he trudges away from his car in the direction of Jackson Road. 

The shoulder of the street is washed out in the rain, creating a treacherous obstacle course of sliding gravel, loosened rocks, miry sludge, and muddy puddles, two of which he manages to step directly into. It’s difficult to see with his eyes squinting shut against the driving rain and the scarce streetlamps lining this particular strip of deserted asphalt. 

If his car had broken down just two blocks later, he would have been in a much better position. There’s a tavern and gas station at the intersection along with the payphone, some sign of civilization that this forested stretch of road where he’s abandoned is absent of. 

Holden clenches his jaw and drags his coat more tightly around himself as a fresh clench of frustration seizes his chest. Part of him wants to sit down on the side of the road just to rest his trembling legs, but he pushes on, determined to get to the payphone in as little time as possible. 

Eventually, he approaches Jackson Road, a darkened street of shops with only the neon blow of the tavern sign smudged against the black sky in rain-drizzled reds and greens to light the way. Across the street, the gas station with two sad pumps is illuminated by a few overhead lights that attract more insects than people at this time of night. The phone booth stands like a beacon at the corner of the intersection, interior lit by a single, bare bulb. 

Holden rushes to the payphone, relief washing through his chest. The sliding door protests on rusty, jammed hinges as he grabs the handle, and it takes a few forceful pulls to get it open far enough for him to slip inside. 

The steady, cold patter of rain on his cheeks cuts off abruptly as he stumbles into the glass enclosure. Bracing a hand against one wall, he draws in a shuddering breath and tries to subdue the bone-deep, chilled shiver running through his body. 

His relief lasts bare seconds.  _ Now what? _

Turning to the pay phone, Holden tucks his hand in his pocket to search for coins. As he sorts out the quarters, he bites anxiously at his lower lip. The booth has no telephone book, and he doesn’t know any numbers for a cab off the top of his head. Anxiously jostling the quarters in his hand, he glances down at his watch. 

_ 10:35. Christ, it’s late.  _

Holden presses his eyes shut as a solution rises in the back of his mind. He can feel rain dripping from his hair and sluicing down his cheeks, absorbing through his clothes to chill his skin. His belly shudders from deep inside and his feet hurt, cold and miserable from the long walk in the storm. He’s stranded, and he doesn’t have any other choice. 

Shoving aside his nerves, Holden feeds the quarters into the narrow slot and listens to them fall to the bottom with a metallic clatter. He picks up the phone, and slowly dials the number he knows by heart. 

As he listens to the shrill ring of the phone, he feels a sudden wave of emotion crawl up the back of his throat. He’s thinking rapidly and all at once:  _ Please pick up. Please don’t be mad. Please help me.  _ And finally:  _ Well, this is just fucking pathetic, isn’t it?  _

The phone rings six times, and he thinks about hanging up. He could call the operator and get a cab service. He could call the police and they would be more than happy to send someone out - it’s their job after all. His anxiety is about to overwhelm him when the repetitive tone cuts off, and the line rustles with movement.

“Hello?” Bill’s voice is muted and raspy with confusion. 

“Bill.” Holden says, pressing his eyes shut. His cheeks flush with heat that competes with the chill of the rain. 

“Holden?” Bill’s sleepy confusion quickly breaks out into concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m sorry it’s late. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“What’s going on?”

“I, um … I just got back into town, and my car broke down, if you can believe it.” Holden says, a nervous chuckle rising from the back of his throat. 

“Oh, man. Talk about shit luck. Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. I just …”

“Where are you?” 

“Well, my car broke down back on Ellis, but I’m at the payphone at Mission and Jackson.”

“Shit, it’s raining cats and dogs. I hope you didn’t walk all that way.”

“How else would I have gotten here?”

“Jesus, you must be freezing.” Bill says, his tone taking on a note of worry. “Stay inside. I’m on my way.”

“Thanks. And I’m really sorry about this. I know it’s late and it’s an inconvenience and-”

“Don’t worry about it. Now the sooner we get off here the sooner I can come pick you up.”

“Right.”

“Okay, stay put. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. Thanks, Bill.”

“Yep.” Bill says, quickly, before hanging up. 

Holden puts the phone down, and leans back against the cold glass partition. Relief surges through his chest at the prospect of not having to walk one more foot in the rain, but despite Bill’s eagerness to help, he’s still anxious. Ever since Atlanta, they’ve been walking around on egg-shells with each other. Holden doesn’t want to intrude on Bill’s privacy as he goes through his divorce, and Bill seems too focused on his own problems and work to regard Holden’s tenuous grasp on his panic disorder. He’d never wanted to be a nuisance or create problems he couldn’t solve on his own. He’d never wanted to be babysat, or for anyone to think he needed supervision - but apparently he had; and now he’s facilitating yet another situation that Bill is required to pull him out of. He wants to pick the phone back up and call just to say “You’re not mad about this, are you?” But Bill has probably already left the house. 

Drenched and shivering, Holden cowers in the phone booth for the next fifteen minutes until he sees Bill’s car through the smudged pane of glass. 

Bill pulls up at the curb, and climbs out of the car. Rain dampens his hair and the shoulders of his trench coat as he pulls a blanket out of the passenger’s seat and carries it across the sidewalk to where Holden is slipping out of the booth. 

“Thanks for coming.” Holden says, blinking against the surge of rain. “You brought me a blanket?”

“Yeah. Jesus, look at you.” Bill says, his brow pinching with worry as he unfurls the blanket. 

Lowering his head, Holden revels in quiet disbelief as Bill drapes the blanket around his shoulders, and draws it closed at his chest. 

“Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.” Bill says, his hand bracing against the middle of Holden’s back to lead him towards the car. 

Holden quietly lets Bill guide him to the passenger’s side and hold the door open for him. Slipping into the vehicle, Holden lets out a shuddering sigh of relief at the warm air blasting from the dashboard vents. 

Bill jogs around the hood of the car, and climbs behind the wheel. When he pulls the door shut behind him, the interior falls into silence except for their muted, heavy breathing, and the quiet sound of Holden’s teeth shivering against one another. 

“You okay?” Bill asks. 

“Yeah.” Holden whispers, his voice unsteady with a chilled tremor.

He slips his eyelids open to peek across the car at Bill. His face is illuminated in the pale light from the dashboard, rain-slick lips pursed into a grim line of worry, his usually perfectly combed hair flattened with the rain. He doesn’t look angry.

“I’m really sorry about this.” Holden whispers, drawing the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “It’s so late-”

“I said not to worry about it.” Bill says, firmly but gently. “Frankly, I’d be more upset if I found out later that this happened and you  _ didn’t  _ call me.”

Holden glances back down at his lap where his numb fingers are white-knuckled around the blanket. It has that foreign smell of someone else’s house lightly concealed by the ashy sting of cigarettes. Abruptly, he feels like crying again. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bill asks. 

Holden nods, pressing his eyes shut. “I’m just really tired.”

“Okay, let’s get you home.” 

Holden turns his face toward the window where the storm outside continues to rage. The car softly lurches into motion as a tear stings the corner of his eye. He lifts his chin against his cheek to let the emotion absorb into the soft microfiber of the blanket along with the rain. It takes him just as long the drive back to his apartment for him to realize that he isn’t just overwrought or extremely tired, but relieved - as if he’s been holding his breath since Atlanta, waiting for everything to spill over between them, waiting for Bill’s disapproval to come crashing down on his fragile shoulders. It hasn’t come, and apparently it never will; he’s been shadowboxing with lying ghosts. 

At his apartment, Bill shuts off the engine, and climbs out of the car. Holden steps out onto the street on the other side, letting the blanket slide from his shoulders. 

“I’ll walk you in.” Bill says.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Bill circles around the car, his expression determined and unwavering. He waves a finger at the drooping blanket. “Come on, put that back on.”

“It’s yours, I don’t want to take it.”

“You know how long that thing has been sitting in my closet for?” Bill asks, pulling the blanket back up around Holden’s neck. He nods toward the building. “Come on, the blanket is the least of my worries. I don’t want you getting sick.”

Holden doesn’t protest again as Bill leads them across the street to the lobby. He punches in the door code with cold, shivering fingers that he quickly sticks back underneath the blanket when the door unlocks. 

In the elevator, neither of them say a word, but Bill’s hand is tucked loosely against Holden’s lower back. It’s not grabbing or forceful, just resting there almost protectively. When Holden closes his eyes, he can feel the weight of it more than the bone-chilled shivers running all the way to the core of his body. 

Holden leads the way to his door, and drags his keys out of pocket with numb fingers. 

“You should get out of those wet clothes right away.” Bill says, quietly.

Holden nods. “I will.”

“Good. The last thing we need is you catching a cold or pneumonia.”

“Yeah.” Holden mutters, jiggling his key in the lock. 

“Hey,” Bill says, touching his elbow. 

Holden glances up from the lock, and Bill’s eyes are soft in the low light of the corridor, worried and unaccusing. 

“We need you.” He says, “So take care of yourself, okay?”

Holden’s throat tightens, and he nods. Shrugging his shoulders to indicate the blanket, he says, “I’ll get this back to you on Monday.”

“Sure. Keep it if you want.” 

Holden frowns softly as Bill gives him a pat on the back, and moves past him back in the direction of the elevator. 

“Let me know if you need a ride to work on Monday.” He says. 

“Thanks, I will.”

“Okay, see you then.”

Holden stands with his key in the lock as he watches Bill amble down the hall back towards the elevator. A slight smile tugs at his mouth. 

When Bill is out of sight, he gets the door open, and slips into his apartment with a sigh of relief. 

First, he drapes the blanket over the arm of the couch, and takes off his wet clothes. When he’s in clean, dry pajamas, he goes into the kitchen to boil water for tea, and as the kettle warms, shuffles into the living room where the discarded blanket is lying. Picking it up, momentarily holds it to his nose, and closes his eyes as he inhales the lingering, warm smell underneath the rain. If he washes it, that scent will be gone. 

Carrying the blanket into his bedroom, Holden uses clothespins to hang it from the curtain rod to dry. Faint light from the streetlamp filters through the microfiber, casting a soft, pinkish glow across his room. The cold in his bones is almost entirely melted away, and he feels warm again. 


	51. the dinner party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: a "double date" , or it's just Wendy and Kay inviting Holden and Bill over. Our boys are still pretty shy around each other and don't really know how to behave but as the evening goes by, they realize that for the very first time, they have a safe space outside of their own cocoon.

Holden spends at least fifteen minutes in front of the closet, picking out and discarding various combinations of outfits before settling on a white polo and gray trousers. Wendy had made him promise not to wear a tie. 

Sliding on a pair of loafers, he shuffles down the hallway to the bathroom where Bill is finishing getting ready. As he leans against the doorframe, their eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror. 

“Almost ready?” Holden asks.

“Yep.” Bill says, his tone casual despite the flicker of tension in his jawline.

He averts his gaze from Holden’s as he slides his watch back onto his wrist and clasps it in place. 

Holden sidles up behind him, and wraps his arms around Bill’s waist. Tucking his chin against Bill’s shoulder, he gives him a slight squeeze so that Bill’s gaze wanders back up to the mirror.

“You look handsome.” Holden whispers, “And nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.” Bill says, scoffing quietly. “I’ve known Wendy a lot longer than you have.”

“I’m nervous, too. It’s okay.”

“I’m fine.” Bill says, giving Holden’s hand a pat. “Come on, let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”

In the car, Bill turns on the radio and lights a cigarette. Despite his reassurances, the tension is almost palpable. His hand tightly grips the steering wheel while he smokes deliberately. His jaw clenches and unclenches. Holden can read the discomfort in the stiffness of his shoulders. He thinks again of trying to persuade Bill into honesty, but his own belly is a bundle of nerves.

It’s only been a couple of months since they admitted their relationship to Wendy, and the idea that their secret no longer exists solely between them is taking some time to get accustomed to - especially for Bill, who had spent a lot of time denying his feelings for Holden. It’s not that either of them don’t trust Wendy - they’re going to have dinner with her and her girlfriend after all - but the simple fact that some part of their narrative is no longer under their control. 

When they reach Wendy and Kay’s house, Bill parks on the curb, and pitches the remnants of his cigarette out the window. 

“Ready?” Holden asks. 

Bill shifts his gaze back to Holden, and manages a thin smile. “Yeah.”

Holden leans over to give him a quick kiss before grabbing the bottle of wine they had brought along and pushing the door open. 

The mild autumn breeze sweeps fallen, dry leaves in a scraping pattern across the asphalt as they cross the street together. Holden’s nerves feel as scattered as the foliage even as he tries to logically order his thoughts. Clutching the cool glass of the wine bottle in his sweaty palm, he climbs the porch steps and knocks deliberately on the front door. 

Wendy answers the door a few moments later, dressed casually in loose, pleated trousers and a black turtleneck. She has her hair back in a way that Holden has never seen before. 

“Hi,” She says, her mouth widening in a smile. “Come on in.” 

She waves them inside, and they both shuffle stiffly across the threshold into the entryway. 

“We brought this.” Holden says, offering her the wine bottle. “As a thank you for having us.”

“Oh, how sweet of you.” Wendy says, taking the bottle. She surprises him by giving him a quick hug. “And you didn’t wear a tie.”

“Hey, your house, your rules.” Holden says, managed a feeble chuckle.

Wendy turns her gaze to Bill who hovers just behind Holden with his hands tucked in his pockets. 

“Bill,” She says, offering her arm. 

They share a brief, side hug before she stands back with a barely concealed grin. 

“I am so glad you’re both here.” She says, sweeping a hand toward the living room. “Please, come in and sit down.”

They follow her down the short hall, past the staircase leading up to the second level, and to the right where the arched opening leads to the living room. From here, Holden can smell the warm scents of dinner cooking wafting from the kitchen, and his stomach gives a rumble despite the butterflies. 

“I think dinner is almost ready.” Wendy says, “I’ll go check. You can wait in here.”

She disappears back through the doorway, leaving Bill and Holden alone in the living room. Bill takes a seat on the couch while Holden wanders across the room to inspect the framed photographs and trinkets lining the mantle above the fireplace. 

“This is a nice place.” He observes, taking one of the pictures of Wendy and Kay from the mantle. “They seem happy here.”

“Yeah. And you’re a guest, so why don’t you sit down and stop being nosy?”

“I’m not.” Holden says, casting him a petulant gaze. “I’m just looking.”

“And rearranging things. Put that down.”

Holden puts the picture back on the mantle, and walks back over to where Bill is sitting rigidly on the edge of the couch cushion. 

“Will you calm down?” He says, lowering his voice to a tense whisper. “Didn’t you hear what Wendy said? She’s so happy that we’re here.”

“I know. I’m telling you not to be impolite.”

Holden huffs a sigh, and sinks down onto the couch beside him. He puts a tentative hand on Bill’s knee, and nudges his shoulder into Bill’s. 

“You get cranky when you’re anxious.” He says, peeking up at Bill with a coy smile. 

Bill’s eyes narrow, but he puts his hand on Holden’s. “For the last time, I’m not anxious. I’m-”

“All right, it looks like dinner is all ready to go.” Wendy interrupts as she strides back into the living room. 

Bill quickly pulls his hand away from Holden’s, and rises from the couch. 

“Great. I think we’re both properly hungry.”

“Follow me.” Wendy says, nodding towards the dining room. 

Holden tries to catch Bill’s gaze for one last reassurance before they plunge into dinner, but Bill is already sauntering past him, on Wendy’s heels. 

They follow her down the hall and into the shared kitchen and dining space where Kay is standing over the counter in an apron, expertly wielding a carving knife over the roast chicken. She sets her tools down, and strips out of the apron with a broadening smile. 

“Hi,” She says, scampering over with a bright, eager gaze. “Welcome. It’s so good to see both of you again.”

“Oh, you too.” Holden says, alarmed as he’s wrapped up in another unexpected embrace. 

On the few occasions that they’ve met Kay, it’s always been in a more formal setting when she either comes to pick Wendy up or at a work party. Inside her own home, Kay seems much more at ease, and not holding back the way that she does under the prying eye of the FBI. 

Bill quickly extends his hand for a shake to curtail the hug, and Kay manages a respectful smile as she returns Bill’s firm grip. 

“Come on, sit down, sit down.” Kay says, waving them towards the table. “I hope you both are hungry because I made enough food to feed a small army.”

“I think we can handle it.” Bill says, casting an appreciative gaze at the array of roast chicken and side dishes lining the counter.

Once they’re all seated at the table, Wendy pops the cork on the bottle of wine that they had brought, and pours them each a glass. 

“I think we should have a toast.” She says.

“Of course.” Holden says, grabbing his own glass to hold it up.

Kay and Bill join in as Wendy clears her throat and holds her glass toward the center of the table, “To friends.” 

They all clink glasses and drink in silence before Wendy announces that they should all eat and have a damn good time. 

For the first fifteen minutes, Holden does his best to push the conversation casually forward with comments on how delicious the meal is and how wonderful Wendy and Kay’s home is. He peeks glances at Bill in between bites and conversation, trying to gauge whether or not the relaxed atmosphere is having some kind of effect on his rigidity. On the surface, he seems calm enough, but he isn’t contributing to the conversation much, and his gaze keeps dropping down his plate. 

Then, as small talk peters off, Kay puts her elbows on the table, and casts them both a curious gaze. 

“So how long have you two been dating?”

Holden almost chokes on a bite of chicken. Bill’s eyes swing up from his plate, a look of alarm straining at his jawline. 

“I, um-” Holden says, clearing his throat. Suddenly he can’t remember any details, let alone a certain number of months or days. “It’s been several months now … Right, Bill?”

“Uh, yeah.” Bill says, cautiously dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. 

“Great.” Kay says, nodding encouragingly. “How’s it going?”

Wendy purses her lips against a budding smile, but does nothing to stem Kay’s questions. She glances up from her plate to meet Holden’s eyes across the table, her eyes reading like either a quiet apology or amused delight. 

“It’s going good, I think.” Holden says, sounding more uncertain than he has of anything in his life. He nervously turns to meet Bill’s gaze, mustering a weak smile. “Right?”

“Yeah.” Bill whispers. 

Impulsively, Holden reaches underneath the table to put his hand on Bill’s thigh, and feels the surprised flinch ripple through his body. Heat rushes to Holden’s cheeks, and he suddenly wants to sink through the floor. If someone who didn’t know anything about the interior, complicated details of their relationship saw this exchange, they might think they despised each other when just the opposite is true. He just doesn’t know why it’s so hard to say it out loud. 

Holden retrieves his hand, and Bill visibly relaxes. 

“Well,” Kay says, “I don’t know either of you very well, but I think you make a great couple. Very handsome.”

“Uh, thank you.” Holden says.

“On the other hand, I know both of you very well.” Wendy adds, “I’ve seen you go through thick and thin together. I wanted to have this dinner tonight because I know how difficult it was for you to tell me about it - which I respect, of course. But I’m honored that you trust me and Kay, too. And we want you to know that we’re your friends, beyond work. Our home is a place where anyone can be themselves.”

Holden’s throat clutches with abrupt emotion, but he manages a smile. 

“Thanks, Wendy. We really appreciate that.”

After dinner concludes, Holden volunteers to help Kay clean up the dinner dishes. They send Bill and Wendy back out to the living room for post-dinner scotch and cigarettes. 

For a few minutes, Kay and Holden clean up in silence, only the clink of dishes and the scrape of spatulas to interrupt the quiet. Wendy had put on a record in the living room, but the background noise barely perforates the dull roar of Holden’s thoughts. As he carries the glasses from the table to the sink, Kay turns to lean against the counter. 

“Have you tried telling General Patton ‘at ease, soldier’?” She asks, casting him a tilted smile. 

Holden sighs as he sets down the glasses, and shakes his head. 

“That bad, huh?”

“I’m not judging.” Kay says, lifting her hands. “I get it. Completely.”

“You do?”

“You wouldn’t believe the number of fights Wendy and I have had about this.” Kay says, tilting her head back with a wry smile. “We actually broke up over it once. So I get where you’re coming from, and I understand it. It’s dangerous enough for someone like me. You work for the government.”

“I knew he was nervous about tonight. I just didn’t think it was this bad.”

“Just give it some time. He’ll come around.” Kay says, giving him a friendly slap on the arm. “And I’m sorry if I came on too strong.”

“It’s not you. You’ve been great.” 

“Thanks. It’s just great seeing people outside of my limited dating pool who I can relate to. Everyone that I know is gay, I’ve either dated, or is so far in the closet they can’t talk about it with me. It’s just nice to have friends, you know. That’s why I hope we didn’t scare him off tonight.”

“I won’t let that happen.” Holden says, smiling softly. “I think this is good for us, telling other people, living it outside of our own home. Well, trying to live it.”

“I’m not sure Bill agrees with you.”

“Well, I love him, you know.” Holden murmurs, lowering his gaze to the kitchen tile as he leans back against the counter. “For better or worse. But it’s hard for him to trust people.”

“I get it.” 

“Me, too. But Wendy is our friend, and now you are, too. I don’t want it to come off that we don’t love each other, or that we don’t appreciate what you were trying to do here tonight.”

“Not at all.” Kay says, pushing away from the counter. “How about a beer while we tackle these dishes?”

“Sounds great.” 

Half an hour later, the kitchen is back in pristine condition. Kay grabs the six pack from the refrigerator and leads them back out to the living room where Bill and Wendy are talking and barely watching the baseball game on the television. 

“Hey, you two.” Kay says, bending down to drop a kiss on Wendy’s cheek, “What are you up to? Solving the problems of the universe?”

“Something like that.” Wendy murmurs, casting Bill a faint smile. 

Bill takes a drag of his cigarette, and smiles back at her. He looks a little more relaxed slouched on the far left side of the couch, a glass of scotch cradled in his lap. 

A surge of affection rushes Holden’s chest, melting away his frustrations. He doesn’t want to push too hard, but maybe he should push just a little. It’s reassuring to hear from Kay that she and Wendy have fought about the same issues but managed to come out a strong couple on the other side. He wants the same for him and Bill. 

Sauntering over to the couch, Holden plops down on the cushions directly beside Bill, and slips his hand around Bill’s forearm. 

“Hey.” He whispers. 

Bill gazes at him through a cloud of smoke, his eyes softer. “Hey.”

Wendy smiles at them from across the couch before rising to her feet. “If you guys are planning on staying longer how about a few rounds of poker or whatever you like?”

“Great idea, babe.” Kay says, “I’ll grab the cards.”

“Poker sounds great as long as you don’t mind losing to Holden here.” Bill says, giving Holden a playful nudge. 

“Is that right?” Wendy asks, “Well, I’ll warn you. Kay is a pretty shrewd card player herself.”

“Oh, don’t encourage him. He likes the challenge.” Bill says, chuckling bemusedly. 

“We can play for pennies.” Holden says, “I wouldn’t want to drain our best friends dry.”

Wendy smiles as the remark hangs in the air.  _ Our best friends.  _

Several rounds of poker and a whole six pack later, Holden has a mountain of pennies and warm relief swirling in his belly. Midway through the sixth round, Bill had put his arm around his shoulders. Too overjoyed by the willing contact, Holden hadn’t even thought to lecture Bill on not leaning too close to his cards. 

The sunset has already drained away, and the sky is black and pin-pointed with crisp stars by the time they say their goodbyes. The temperature outside has dropped with the disappearing sun, but Holden isn’t bothered by the cool breeze as he and Bill walk back across the street to their car with their hands laced together. 

While Bill drives, Holden sinks down in his seat with a contented sigh. 

“I think tonight went well, all things considered.” He says. 

“Yeah, it was nice.” Bill says, his face illuminated in the spark of his lighter. 

Holden turns his cheek against the seat leather, watching the softened planes of Bill’s face glow beneath the flash of streetlamps. His hand reaches absently across the seat to find Holden’s, fingertips gently grazing his palm before settling in between his fingers. 

“What did you and Wendy talk about?” Holden asks, quietly. “While Kay and I cleaned up?”

“Nothing too exciting. Work. Stuff like that.”

“Really?” Holden asks, “Kay told me that she and Wendy used to fight about being too forward and affectionate with each other in view of other people.”

“Yeah?” Bill asks, but he doesn’t sound surprised. 

“Yeah, and she said that she totally understands why now. It’s dangerous for people like us who work for the government and have a lot to lose. But it’s like Wendy said, their house is a safe place.”

They’re both quiet for a long moment as the hum of tires of pavement rushes in to fill the silence. Holden tightens his fingers around Bill’s, urging honesty. 

Bill sighs, casting him a quick, apologetic glance. “Holden, I’m sorry. I fucked tonight up and-”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, kind of.”

“No. What I’m saying is that Wendy and Kay understand completely. They know what it’s like. That’s why having them as friends is so great. We don’t have to pretend around them like we do in public, but it’s hard to get used to.”

“Yeah.” Bill says, turning his gaze back to the road. “I guess you’re right.”

“I know I am. Besides, I don’t care what other people think or see. I know you love me.”

Bill’s hand squeezes around Holden’s. “Yeah. I do.”

“I love you, too.” Holden whispers, pulling Bill’s hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

The rest of the drive home is quiet. Holden turns on the radio at low volume, and cradles Bill’s hand in his lap between both his palms. Watching the houses and landscapes speed by outside the car, he feels a sense of comfort beginning to engulf his chest. Tonight was a test, a modification of their relationship beyond the four walls of their bedroom. Maybe they didn’t do every single thing right, but it’s only the beginning; in the bright warmth of the future, there’s many more dinner parties to be had. 


	52. hell or high water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: (established relationship) they're out on consult in the middle of bill's divorce. he's angry and lashes out at holden even though it's not his fault, holden's like 'i'm going for a swim'. he comes back and they make up!

The shimmering whorls and loops of the Galveston Pleasure Pier is a distant outline against the fading sunlight beyond the window of their hotel room. Five stories below, the fenced-in pool offers a cool escape from the summer time heat and the crushing gravity of stress. If they hadn’t been here on consult, Holden might have found this island retreat butting up against the cerulean stretch of the Gulf of Mexico relaxing, and he imagines most of the people staying in this hotel with them are enjoying their vacation. Maybe they know about the string of murders, dead bodies on sandy beaches, and missing posters, and maybe they don’t; some of them probably don’t care because it doesn’t affect them. 

It’s affecting Holden. The case, and every other outside force that had already been bearing down on them before they arrived in Texas. 

Stripping out of his suit, Holden changes into swim trunk and a t-shirt. He grabs both his room key from the desk, and slips out into the hallway. 

Bill’s room is only three doors down from Holden’s, making for a short trip. When he reaches the door, the sound of Bill’s voice reaching past the walls makes him stop with his hand around the knob. He can only make out bits and pieces of what sounds like a telephone conversation, but he instantly recognizes the strain and frustration spiking in Bill’s tone. 

Stomach sinking, Holden rests his forehead against the door. Some days, he wonders if he’d been incredibly reckless and irresponsible to strike up a relationship with his partner directly after returning from Atlanta, a case which had worn both of them thin, and just as Bill was beginning the process of divorcing his wife. The separation, despite being mutually anticipated, is complicated by Brian’s situation with the courts and CPS. He’d chosen perhaps the worst time to let his feelings for Bill run free, but Bill hadn’t stopped to consider the consequences either. 

When Bill’s agitated tone comes to a stop, Holden knocks softly on the door.

The knob turns and the door swings open. Bill stands on the other side of the threshold with a frustrated frown pinching his brow and his jaw clenched. His eyes soften when he sees Holden, but the tension in his shoulders lingers. 

“Hi.” Holden says, “I was going down to the pool. I thought you might want to join me.”

“I don’t know. I’m beat.” 

Holden nods, slowly. 

Their gazes hold, a quiet exchange traversing underneath the banal conversation. Holden leans against the doorjamb, one foot creeping across the carpet into Bill’s room. 

Bill leaves the door open, and turns to walk back into the room. 

Slipping inside, Holden pushes the door shut behind him. He watches Bill’s stiff movements as he lights a cigarette, and sits down on the bed with a weary sigh. The case files are open on the bedspread beside him. He bites the inside of his cheek. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Bill says, leaning over to tap ashes into the tray on the nightstand. “You know. Same shit, different day.”

“Was that Nancy?” 

Bill’s gaze cuts up to meet Holden’s. His eyes are tired, stress wearing nerves thin, leaving him reactionary and frayed. The ripple of tension in his jawline casts resistance across the space between them, igniting hesitation in Holden’s chest. He thinks of adding, “ _ We don’t have to talk about it. _ ” But, Bill clears his throat. 

“Yeah.” He says, shifting back against the pillows with a dour nod. “The custody hearing got pushed because I’m out of town.”

Holden licks his lips anxiously as he wanders closer to the bed. “She was mad?”

“The courts move slow enough as it is. I’m making it harder than it needs to be.” Bill says, waving sloppy quotation marks. 

“You want this to be over just as much as she does.” 

“You think I haven’t told her that?” Bill asks, scoffing in the back of his throat. “I can’t  _ make  _ her understand my job.”

Holden sits down on the edge of the bed, and tentatively puts a hand on Bill’s thigh. Peeking up at Bill, he quietly watches the frustration sift across Bill’s profile, exhaling steadily inside the cloud of smoke seeping past his lips. 

“Ah, fuck. I don’t know what it matters anyway.” Bill mutters, absently dropping his hand over Holden’s knuckles. “The judge is going to rule in her favor.”

“You’re not going to fight it, are you?”

“He’s my kid, too. Part of me feels like I should.”

“But, doesn’t this situation right now prove that she’s right? You’re out of town so much-”

Bill’s hand pulls away, and his gaze swings from the window to grip Holden’s with flaring anger. “Whose fucking side are you on?”

“Yours, of course.” 

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“I’m just trying to think of it from a logical perspective, and-”

“I didn’t ask you to come over here and try to logically fix my divorce, okay?” Bill says, swinging his legs off the bed, and climbing to his feet. 

Holden presses his mouth shut as a wounded flinch expands in his chest. 

“There’s no fucking logic to it.” Bill continues, his hand jabbing angrily at empty air. “The whole situation is fucked up.”

“I … I’m sorry.” Holden whispers again, his cheeks growing warm. “I was just thinking of what’s best for Brian.”

“Oh, so now you know what’s best for my kid before I do?”

“No, I- I just … I’m wondering if anyone has asked what he wants in all of this.”

Bill’s nostrils flare as he crushes his cigarette purposefully in the ashtray. 

“Look,” He says, his voice dropping to a strained, flat tone. “None of this would be happening if those kids hadn’t murdered a fucking child - if Brian hadn’t stood there and watched it happen, and did nothing about it. He’s eight years old, Holden, and apparently, he doesn’t know right from wrong - and now, because of that, we’ve got Child Protective Services rooting through our life, and a therapist dissecting his every thought and action. Because of him, this divorce is going to take two times longer than it should have - so, no, he doesn’t get a fucking say in what happens. And neither do you.”

Holden glances away from Bill’s cutting glare, trying to suppress the burn of pain in his chest. Swallowing back the sting in the back of his throat, he stiffly rises from the edge of the bed. 

“I’m going out to the pool. I’m sorry for putting my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Bill’s hardened expression cracks with a sigh as Holden brushes past him, but he doesn’t turn around or try to stop Holden from leaving. He stands still, his fingers braced against the bridge of his nose as Holden marches across the room and out into the hallway.

As he rides the elevator down to ground level, Holden tries to smother the flinching pain in his chest. It’s understandable that Bill is upset. They spent all day talking to family and friends of the latest victim, an emotionally harrowing task by any seasoned detective’s standards, and then he had to come back to the hotel to argue with Nancy about hearings and their child’s precarious future instead of trying to unwind from the long, stressful day. Holden shouldn’t have intruded. He shouldn’t have offered his advice, or even his opinion. As Bill had so succinctly pointed out, it’s none of his business.

He’s still kicking himself when he pushes past the door toward the pool enclosure, and the muggy heat hits him in the face. Drenched, yellow sunlight washes across the pool, reflecting blinding rays across the water that offers a buoyant escape from his thoughts.. A young family of four splashes joyously in the shallow end, creating ripples that travel all the way over to the deep end where Holden has the section of the pool all to himself. Stripping out of his t-shirt, he draws in a deep breath, and dives in. 

The shock of the cold water immediately quashes the sweaty layer of heat gathering on his skin. Channeling the bursting hum of frustrated energy into his strokes, he swims cleanly, rapidly across to the other side. When he reaches the opposite wall, he rises up to get a breath of air for only a moment before pushing off into the next lap. 

As his body cuts through the water, he focuses on controlling his breathing and the rhythm of his arms and legs propelling his momentum. He lets the fire in his chest burn, lets it fuel him. After ten laps, he clings to the edge of the pool with gasping lungs and wet cheeks, but he isn’t crying. The adrenaline-laced shudder in his limbs feels good, and it masks the lingering frustration simmering in his chest. 

After less than three minutes of rest, he launches away from the wall again. 

This round of laps is slower as his energy burns lower, his tired body protesting after a long day on little sleep, but he keeps pushing himself until his muscles are trembling, until the sharp edge of wounded pride and hurt feelings abates into a sickly knot in the pit of his stomach. When he can’t make one more stroke through the water, he rolls onto his back to float in the center of the pool with his gaze turned up toward the open dome of the sky. 

While he watches the sunset unfold in glorious pinks and purples, the hum of adrenaline fades and his body cools in the water. He thinks of going back inside, but he has no idea if Bill will still be angry, especially when he has a justified right to be; and so, he stays in the water as the colors elongate, oversaturate, melt, and fade.The light is almost entirely gone from the sky, and he’s shivering from deep in his belly when movement at the edge of the pool draws his gaze. 

The water splashes quietly, breaking the utter silence, as Holden rolls off his back and treads water. 

Bill stands at the edge of the pool, holding a six pack of beer at his side. His eyes are shielded by his sunglasses, but the quietly extended olive branch is clear. 

They share a long, silent gaze while a breeze comes in from the gulf, blowing warm, night air across the strained distance between them. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Holden swims over to the edge of the pool. 

“Is one of those for me?” He asks, nodding at the beer. 

“No. Three of them are.”

“Okay. That seems fair.”

Bill’s mouth tugs ruefully as he bends down to extend his hand to Holden. 

Grabbing onto it, Holden pushes off the lip of the pool surround while Bill hoists him up out of the water. He crawls onto the sun-warmed cement, his body shivering as cooled air strikes his bare, wet skin. 

Bill sets the six-pack down on one of the plastic lounge chairs, and snags Holden’s towel. He tosses it to him, and Holden catches it mid-air. 

Wrapping the towel around his shoulders, Holden watches quietly as Bill sits down on the lounge chair, and cracks two of the beers open. He tries to gauge Bill’s frustration, but his silence means nothing - he’s a pro at the cold shoulder. 

Bill nods for Holden to join him. “You want your half or not?”

Holden shuffles over to the other lounge chair, and takes the offered beer. Leaning back, he takes a slow sip of the beer, and studies Bill’s profile. 

In the dying light, Bill’s mouth is damp from the beer, and his jaw is a tempered line of frustration. He pulls his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, and lights one. The motions are familiar, his hands recognizable, his mouth and nose and sunglass-shielded eyes known to Holden, but he doesn’t understand this space between them, this friction. It’s new and unwieldy, a stretch of landmines he isn’t sure how to navigate. 

“Do you ever think we made a mistake?” Holden asks, sinking lower against the lounge chair with the towel tucked against his chin. 

“With what?” Bill asks, not looking over at him. “Sleeping together?”

“I was going to say ‘having a relationship’.”

Bill sighs, softly. “Yeah.”

“Maybe we should have waited until the divorce was over.”

Bill laughs, a small, wry chuckle that draws Holden’s gaze over and a frown to his brow. 

“What?” 

“You can’t approach everything from an analytical perspective.” Bill says, taking a drag of his cigarette. He tilts his head back to exhale smoke toward the open, dusky sky. “I couldn’t have made myself wait any longer even if I tried.”

Holden purses his mouth against an unbidden smile.

“Fuck,” Bill mutters, shaking his head. “I wanted you so bad, and now-”

“Now what?”

Bill takes his sunglasses off, turning to cast Holden a somber gaze. He tucks his beer in his lap, and reaches over to touch Holden’s knuckles. 

“Now, I’m … I’m trying to ruin it.” 

“You’re not. You were upset, understandably so.”

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“And I shouldn’t have acted like I know more about your situation than you do. I’m fine with just forgetting about it and moving on.”

“That’s the problem.” Bill says, swinging his legs over the side of the chair to face Holden completely. “I’ve already made that mistake - a million times.”

Holden purses his lips as Bill’s fingers curl tighter around his fingers. His chest tightens, a quiet flood of emotion wanting to break free. He’s good at repressing his feelings and leaving them to rot deep in his chest. That’s how he prefers it, and he wants to beg Bill not to make them face this - the raw honesty, the vulnerability that could undermine his entire emotional structure. 

“I’m sorry.” Bill says, quietly. 

Holden draws in a shuddering breath. “It’s okay; I’m already over it. Do you want to go inside? We could go back to your room or mine-”

“Holden.” 

“What?” 

“I’m serious.” Bill says, the corners of his eyes pinching with worry. “The divorce is far from over. There’s a chance today is going to repeat for months. If you don’t want to go through that, I understand.”

“What are you saying?”

“Well, you admitted it yourself - this could have been a mistake.”

Holden pulls his hand away from Bill’s, fresh anger of a different sort surging through his chest. He rises to his feet, clutching the towel closed at his chest. 

“No.” He says, sharply.

Bill squints up at him. “No?”

“No. I am not falling for that.”

“Falling for what?”

“You, manipulating me into breaking up with you because you won’t do it yourself.” Holden says, jabbing an accusatory hand at Bill’s alarmed expression. “I’ve been through that before, too, Bill. I’m not doing it this time. If you want to break up with me, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”

Bill’s mouth falls open slightly as Holden grabs his t-shirt and shoves his feet into his sandals. As he marches toward the hotel, Bill bolts up off the lounge chair and rushes after him.

“Holden.” 

Holden keeps walking, his vision swimming with enraged, hurt tears. 

Bill grabs at his arm, catching him by the wrist just as he reaches the pool gate. He pulls Holden back around, his other hand bracing firmly against his hip. 

“Please, stop.” Bill whispers as Holden tries to wrench away from him. “Holden, look at me.”

Holden stops, slowly lifting his misty gaze from the ground. His pulse thumps against Bill’s grasp, skin singing to the touch despite the frustration surging through his chest. 

“I came down here to apologize.” Bill says, softly. “Not to break up with you.”

“Then why are you saying these things?”

“Because, I … fuck-” Bill says, glancing away, his jaw clenching. He lets out a low sigh. “Because, as much as I love you, I can’t put you through this without at least giving you the chance to cut your losses and walk away.”

Holden swallows hard as fresh tears crush to the corners of his eyes. This time, they aren’t tears of pain or anger, but a rising relief climbing his chest like a tide. 

“You … you love me.” He whispers, the words sounding awkward and foreign in his mouth. He heard Bill say them out loud, but he’s not convinced it’s real. 

Bill lowers his head for a moment before lifting his eyes somberly to Holden’s. 

“Yes.”

Holden draws in a hitched breath. “Oh.”

“Yeah, so … that’s why I can’t drag you into something you didn’t sign up for, or not warn you that things could get worse before they get better.” 

“Well, that’s … that’s going to be a problem.”

Bill’s brow flickers worriedly. “Why?”

“Because.” Holden says, lifting his chin defiantly. “I love you, too. And I’m not walking away, come hell or high water.”

Bill gives a choked laugh, his eyes gleaming as he pulls Holden closer. Their mouths collide in a brief, warm kiss, shielded by the flimsy layer of the fence around them. When he pulls back, they’re both fighting quivering smiles. 

“Come on.” Holden murmurs, nodding towards the hotel, “Let’s go inside.”

“Yeah, okay.” Bill agrees, giving Holden’s waist a squeeze. 

He drops one more kiss on Holden’s cheek before going back to retrieve the six-pack from the lounge chair. 

They cross the deserted lobby at a distance, but when the doors of the elevator slide shut behind them, Holden reaches over to nudge his fingers against Bill’s. 

Bill smiles softly as he extends his fingers, entwining them loosely with Holden’s. 

Inching across the space between them, Holden lowers his head to Bill’s shoulder, and watches the floor indicator blip through the numbers. His heartbeat slows down, sinking into that melted, calm place that Bill so easily constructs with his touch. It’s a small moment in time, a lapse between storms, but Holden stubbornly defies the odds. Even if the water rises up over their knees, he isn’t letting go; whatever darkness lies ahead, this light, this happiness, is worth the struggle. 


	53. a beautiful wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: (can be modern au) they’re out at a bar and someone starts flirting with holden. cue jealous!bill. I'm also considering this an extension of a previous prompt, Chapter 12: Earth Angel, but you don't need to read that one to understand this one :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warning: sexual content**

The radio is playing some upbeat, percussive rap-pop duo tune that is grating on Bill’s nerves, but he’s too wrapped up in his thoughts to move his hand from the steering wheel to change the station. His other hand is tucked out the open window, dispelling cigarette ashes into the night air. The smoke is dwindled down to a stub, burned low by his silent machinations and itching agitation. 

Flicking a glance across the car, Bill discreetly studies Holden’s face illuminated in the glow of his cellphone screen. His thumb scrolls lazily, and his expression is coolly relaxed. He isn’t nervous at all. 

Bill looks away sharply when Holden’s gaze lifts from his phone. 

“What?” He asks. 

“Nothing.” Bill says, focusing on the road ahead. 

The street light flashes to red, and he pushes down on the brake a little too hard. The car comes to a halting stop, plunging them into silence. Bill curls his fingers tighter around the wheel until his knuckles blanch white. 

“You know, you didn’t have to come tonight.” Holden says, his tone brooking on irritation. 

Bill scoffs. 

“You didn’t. Seriously. I get why it could be too much for you to-”

“It’s not  _ too much  _ for me.” Bill interrupts, his mouth tensing with an offended grimace. 

Holden releases a clipped sigh. 

Bill doesn’t want to argue, but the disagreement is already rippling beneath the surface like an electric current, threatening flame. He takes a hard drag of his cigarette. 

They’re six months into their relationship. Publicly, only three months. Some people don’t mind stretching the boundaries and exploring new experiences together after that short period of time, but to Bill, who was married for fifteen years, three months is the blink of an eye. Unsteady ground. Sharp learning curves and fast balls he’s juggling just as quickly as he can. Is going to a gay bar together really the kind of limb they should be crawling out onto right now?

It doesn’t matter. Their co-worker, Jared, had suggested they come out for drinks tonight since it’s Memorial Day, and Holden had all but harangued Bill into going. Maybe harangued isn’t the right word. He’d announced he was going, and Bill hadn’t been able to divest him of the notion; and he couldn’t stand the thought of Holden going alone either. Does that make him the jealous boyfriend? Maybe so. There’s nothing he can do about it. 

As Bill parks along the curb outside the bar, he squints at the group of young men standing out front smoking. They’re all scarcely dressed in shorts and crop-tops. One of them is even wearing heels. To Bill, they look like the kind of delinquents he’d spent his beat cop days chasing off street corners, but his opinions since then have changed. He has to remind himself not to be so judgmental. 

“Ready?” Holden asks, his tone bursting with excitement. 

“Yeah.” Bill mutters. 

Holden leans across the seat to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Take a few deep breaths. I promise, I’m not throwing you to the wolves.”

“I’m fine. I said I’m fine.”

“Okay. Just try to have fun, will you?” Holden says, his mouth curling in a knowing smile. 

He shoves the door open with his shoulder, and climbs out onto the sidewalk. 

Bill takes one last drag of his cigarette before pitching it out onto the sidewalk. Drawing in a deep breath, he climbs out of the car, and meets Holden at the hood. Holden’s fingers wind between his, dragging him across the street towards the front of the bar. 

As they approach the front door, one of the young men, wearing a full face of makeup and a blond wig, waves at them. 

“Hey, there.”

“Hi.” Holden says, smiling at the young drag queen amiably. 

“Staying for the show?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” 

“Ooh, wonderful. I’ll look for your face in the crowd.” The queen says, painted lips casting Holden a coy smile before shifting her gaze to Bill. “You too, soldier boy.”

Bill opens his mouth to muster a defensive reply, but Holden’s fingers tighten around his, sternly guiding him past the front door. The interior of the bar is dimly lit, the air vibrating with the thump of dance music and the buzz of conversation. Strobe lights flash across the tables surrounding the peninsular platform and the crowded bar area, making it difficult to distinguish faces in the churning mass of bodies. 

Bill immediately feels the tension in his body ratchet up a notch further, all of his instincts telling him to get the hell out right now. Holden had promised he wasn’t throwing him to the wolves, but this feels distinctly hostile - a pointed attack on his sheltered ideals, on himself. 

After they show their IDs, Holden drags Bill further into the crowded room. 

“There’s Jared!” He shouts over the thump of the music, pointing a finger at their co-worker standing in a group of young men at the far end of the bar. 

Jared waves back at them, an ecstatic smile breaking out on his face. 

Clutching Bill’s hand, Holden leads them through the sea of bodies. Bill keeps his gaze focused ahead, avoiding accidental eye contact with any of the numerous scantily clad men around him. He feels entirely out of place in his jeans and golf shirt, his graying hair and crew cut. Most of the people in the bar are closer to Holden’s age or younger with the few older men looking like tattooed muscle heads clinging to fleeting youth. 

His hand is sweating around Holden’s by the time they make their way down the bar to where Jared and his friends are standing. 

“Hey, guys, I’m so glad you could make it.” Jared says, giving Holden a quick hug. 

Bill offers a handshake, blocking off the possibility of an embrace. Jared looks like he’s already a few drinks in, his cheeks flushed pink below the strobe light and his eyes glistening with a liquor glaze. 

“Bill, man-” Jared says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I gotta say, I’m surprised to see you.”

“Well, here I am.” Bill says, ruefully. 

“Oh, don’t let him fool you.” Holden says, leaning into Bill with a sly chuckle. “I practically had to hog tie him.”

“That isn’t true.” Bill says. 

Holden’s fingers push playfully into his ribs as he rises up on his toes to plant a kiss on Bill’s mouth. “You’re cute.”

Jared snickers. “Ever been to a drag show before, Bill?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, you are in for a treat. And I think you need a drink in your hand.” 

Jared waves down the bartender, and in just a few minutes, Bill has a rum and coke in his hand while Holden is sipping a cosmo. They crowd around the bar with Jared who is apparently a seasoned regular at the club. Bill keeps his hand braced against Holden’s lower back as they’re introduced to a seemingly endless string of friends and acquaintances most of whom are already partially inebriated. They’re all so carefree and jovial, easily flaunting their sexuality and having a good time, but their free spirits have the opposite effect on Bill’s raw nerves. 

Before he knows it, he’s downed two rum and cokes and is working on his third. Holden is carrying on a lively conversation with Jared and his friends, a discussion that Bill can’t think of anything he has to contribute to. Quietly, he starts to wonder just how early they can slip out of the bar without being called light-weights or party-poopers; but just as his lips are feeling numb from the rum, a voice over the PA system announces the drag show is starting in ten minutes. 

Jared whoops, “Hell yeah. The best part of the night. Come on!”

Bill grits his teeth as Jared heads for the stage, creating a mass exodus of his friends crowded around the bar. He hangs back, his stomach knotting with a strange mix of anticipation and anxiety. He’s seen a man in a dress before - on police reports, crime scene photos. Not in a bar where it’s openly accepted and encouraged. He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel about it. 

“You okay?” Holden asks, lowering his voice as he slides off the bar stool. 

“Yeah, fine.”

“You’re drinking a lot.”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” 

“Do you want to leave?” Holden asks, his brow rising impatiently. 

“What do you think?”

“Can you at least try to relax and have a good time?” Holden asks, his brow pinching with frustration. “You’re not even giving it a chance.”

“What do you want me to say, Holden? This isn’t my thing.”

“It could be if you would let it. Everyone here is nice. They’re not trying to attack you; they’re just trying to have a good time, make friends. It’s a community.”

“Oh, so you’re going to lecture me right now? In the middle of a gay bar?”

Holden glances away, his jaw tightening beneath the pink glow of the strobe lights. His hair is disheveled, his temples sweat-lined in the cramped humidity of the bar. On another night, Bill would have thought he looked irresistible. Right now, he’s just pissing Bill off. 

“Well, I’m not leaving.” Holden says, sharply. “You can go home if you want.”

“What? I’m not  _ leaving  _ you here.”

“I could find a ride home. It’s not like you’re leaving me with a group of strangers to be raped or something.”

“Jesus. That’s not what I was implying.”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

Before Bill can protest, Holden turns and marches into the crowd of bodies gathering around the platform. A percussive, pop anthem blasts from the speakers, and the strobe lights switch to red, white, and blue as a voice over the speakers announces the beginning of the show. 

Bill glances around the bar, his stomach turning. If he leaves right now, he’s not living it down. Not with Holden, or Jared, or anyone else. And he should really try harder, he thinks. Like Holden says, if he gives it a chance it might not be all bad. He can do this. He survived Desert Storm. A gay bar should be no problem. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Bill orders another drink from the bar, and makes his way through the crowd just as the first drag queen is strutting down the platform. His newly gathered courage flags immediately when he sees Holden seated at one of the tables next to a middle-aged guy with shaggy, black hair and a muscular build. 

“I haven’t seen you around here before.” The guy is saying, leaning closer to Holden attentively despite the drag show playing out above them. 

“I’m friends with Jared.” Holden says, pointing out Jared from across the aisle. “We work together.”

“Oh, yeah, Jared’s cool. What’s your name?”

“Holden.”

“Holden?” 

“Yeah.”

“Oh, okay. Like  _ Catcher In the Rye _ .”

“Yeah, just like that.”

“Well, your parents were kind of bold naming you after a guy like that. Talk about a conversation starter.”

“Yeah, if you’re into classic literature.”

“I am. I’m into other things, too.” The guy says, leaning closer with a coy smiler. “Are you on Grindr?”

“Um, no. I was a few months ago.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, I-”

Holden’s reply stops in the back of his throat as Bill walks up to the table. The guy sitting next to him glances up, the eager gleam in his eyes fading away as Bill glares down at him. 

“Bill …” Holden says, shifting away from the guy’s comfortable posture. “Um … this is Alex.”

“Hi.” Alex says, rising from his chair to offer his hand. “Who are you?”

“Leaving.” Bill says. 

Holden’s mouth slips open as Bill catches him by the hand, and pulls him up from the table. 

“Bill-” Holden begins to protest, his cheeks flushing pink. 

“Come on, let’s go.”

Without waiting for Holden to agree, Bill leads them through the crowd of swaying bodies, away from the thud of the music, the show, the lights.

As they emerge out into the night air, Holden resists against Bill’s hand around his wrist. 

“Bill, stop. Wait.”

“Who the fuck was that guy?” Bill demands, spinning around to pin Holden with a fiery glare. “And since when were you on Grindr?”

“He- He was a friend of Jared’s I think.” Holden sputters, his eyes widening with disbelief. “I don’t know. He just sat down and started talking to me.”

“He wasn’t just  _ talking,  _ Holden. He was trying to fuck you. I may be a little new to this scene, but I know when somebody is interested.”

“So? I wasn’t interested in him!” 

They both pauses, staring back and forth at each other and panting in agitated frustration. 

Bill turns away, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Fucking Christ.” He curses, trying to shove down the heat of anger in his chest. 

He can feel himself overreacting, but he’s too stupid and jealous and buzzed to make it stop. Where did all of his self-control go? 

“You are blowing this out of proportion.” Holden says, his voice dropping to a wounded whisper. “God, I knew this was a mistake.”

“So then why did you agree to come here tonight?” Bill asks, cutting him a withering glare. 

“Because Jared is my friend, Bill. And I am not just going to stop living my life because we’re dating now. I’m not going to change my group of friends, or stop doing things I enjoy. And I’m sure as hell not going put up with you acting like a selfish, jealous asshole.”

Silence settles again. Bill’s face is burning, an acidic mix of rage and humiliation. 

“Fine.” He says, his voice dropping to a choked whisper. “Go back in there then. Go have fun.”

Holden’s expression falls from anger to disbelief as Bill turns to march across the street towards the car. His hands curl into fists at his sides, squeezing back the shudder of anger; but his rage has already waned into something closer to crushing disappointment. Not in Holden, but in himself. 

As he reaches the car, Holden’s clipped pace across the asphalt draws his attention. He glances up to see Holden jogging towards him, his face etched with defiance. He draws to a stop a few feet away, his eyes glistening beneath the yellow glow of the street lamp.

“I’m coming with you.” He says, softly.

Bill nods, his throat too thick with tangled emotion to speak. He ducks into the car, and twists the key forcefully into the ignition. Holden climbs into the passenger’s seat, sinking low against the leather cushioning as Bill pulls away from the curb. 

They drive in silence, hurt feelings throbbing angrily beneath the surface like an open wound. Bill keeps trying to think of something to say, but every crafted apology is immediately crushed by his own flinching insecurities. He wants to hang onto his rage because it feels better than vulnerability. It’s partially justified, isn’t it? Maybe all the other gays at the bar are fine with flirting along the borders of their committed relationship, but he isn’t. He isn’t like any of them. He’s just the idiot who fell in love with his co-worker and blew up his entire life. 

As they’re nearing home, Holden glances over at him. 

“You know, I deleted Grindr from my phone as soon as we got together.” He says, quietly. 

“I can’t believe you were on there in the first place.”

Holden shakes his head, his arms curling across his chest. “God. You really need to get your head out of your ass. You have no idea what it’s like. You just stumbled into this relationship - which was a good thing until now, by the way - without even trying. You don’t know what it’s like to try to date when you're a minority. How hard it is to meet people. How fucking lonely it gets. Please, don’t tell me I should have stuck with a dating app, or that I should have listened to everyone when they told me not to fall for a straight guy.”

Bill scoffs harshly from the back of his throat, pride flinching deep down into his bones. 

“Wow. Seriously?”

Holden’s face is fixed straight ahead, his profile quivering with suppressed anger when Bill casts him a sharp glance. 

“You want to debate my sexuality?” Bill demands, his gaze shifting between the approaching light of his house and Holden’s stoic rage. “You want to make me prove it to you?”

Holden’s gaze darts from the road, apprehension surpassing the anger. His lower lip quivers.

Bill pulls into the driveway, and throws the gear shift forcefully into park. Yanking off his seatbelt, he nods towards the house. 

“You want to? Let’s go, then.” He says, shoving the door open. 

Holden’s mouth slips open as Bill climbs out of the car, and marches toward the house. He doesn’t follow until Bill is up to the front porch, unlocking the door with shaking hands. As he climbs up the steps, Bill leaves the door open behind him, and paces into the living room. His body is humming with competing urges of possessive anger, wounded pride, needy desperation, every single one of them looking for validation - for proof inside Holden’s warm, quivering body that he belongs there. 

Holden slips past the front door, and gazes at him in the low light. His eyes are gleaming, both steel and glass, but his mouth is trembling defiantly. A beautiful wreck. Bill wants to throw himself into it, watch them both shatter, watch them try to collect the pieces; the night is already far gone enough, so what’s one more boundary crossed?

He closes the space between them in a few strides and catches Holden by the cheeks. Their mouths collide, a desperate clash of panting lips, hungry tongue, biting teeth. Holden’s whimper is muffled beneath the pressure of Bill’s mouth coming down, but it quickly twists into a needy groan as he leans into the harsh caress. 

Bill pushes him up against the wall, hearing the back of Holden’s head hit with a thud. Holden only seems fueled by the ferocity, his hands tearing at Bill’s neck and chest, pushing fabric out of the way until he can rub his palm up against Bill’s swelling groin. 

Their mouths break apart with a gasp, and Holden gazes up at him with swollen lips and flaring eyes. 

“I want you to fuck me.” He whispers, his voice ragged and hoarse. He pushes a wet kiss against Bill’s lower lip, his eyes staying open as he whispers visceral need. “Fuck me so hard.”

Bill kisses him again, smothering the last of his hesitation. He lifts Holden off the ground with both hands clasped over his backside, and Holden locks his ankles against his lower back. Bill staggers down the hallway to the bedroom, finding his way through the dark to their bed where they collapse in a wrestling heap of angry, needy limbs.

They tear at each other’s clothes, shoving each garment out of the way in a hurry, in between biting kisses and heavy-handed petting. As Holden yanks on his boxers, Bill reaches over to yank the dresser drawer open and find the bottle of lube. 

He uses a generous amount to glaze Holden’s cleft before pushing a finger inside. Holden bites into his shoulder as the rough penetration quickly goes in to the knuckle again and again, working him open at a demanding pace. He doesn’t whimper or complain; in fact, the rough handling seems to only be making him more aroused as he thrusts down against Bill’s hand and curses in pleasure. Soon, he’s squirming and whispering desperately in Bill’s ear, “Hurry up. I’m ready. I want your cock.”

Bill’s head is already lost in a blur of alcohol, bruised ego, and need, and he feels himself tipping over the edge, past his frustration, as he quickly rolls on a condom. He forces himself to slow down as he pushes his cock inside, working past the lingering clench of muscle, working all the way to the hilt. 

Holden moans and arches beneath him, his expression etched with mounting pleasure. Bill feels his chest seize as he plunges inside, their bodies joining as firmly and deeply as they can. Suddenly, with Holden’s body wrapped around him and his mouth moaning just for Bill, all of his crazy, insecure conclusions look unfounded and silly. Not just stupid, but selfish and damaging. 

Bill leans over Holden’s trembling body, gathering him closer in his arms as he begins to thrust against him. A sense of relief washes over him when Holden reciprocates, wrapping both arms around his neck and clutching his knees to Bill’s ribs. Burying his face in Holden’s neck, Bill rocks against him, and tries to absorb every second of his warm, soft skin, the heat of his body cradling Bill at their most intimate points, the shudder of limbs wrapped desperately around him. They’re all alone in the dark, no strobe lights or painted faces or leering suitors; on this private stage, none of it matters. 

Some time later, they’re laying in a tangled heap of spent pleasure and boneless limbs. Holden curls against his chest while Bill’s breathing slows, the jagged hitch of his lungs pinned down by the warmth of his ear pressed close. 

Bill runs his fingertips over Holden’s shoulder, watching his pale skin glow beneath the splash of moonlight stretching through the window. His chin is tucked against his chest, hiding his face from Bill’s searching gaze, but Bill can feel the tender shudder running through him. 

He sighs, letting his fingers go stationary against Holden’s shoulder. His chest is still raw and flinching and full, bottled emotions wanting to burst free; and he knows he needs to channel them in some other way than rage or reckless, angry sex. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into the darkness. 

Holden lays still against him for a long moment before his head nestles closer. “I’m sorry, too. That was harsh of me to say … the straight guy thing.”

“I shouldn’t have overreacted at the bar. I was just-”

“I know.” Holden says, lifting his head from Bill’s chest to cast him a rueful gaze. “It’s not what you’re used to, and I should have been more sensitive to that. I know tonight was hard for you.”

“Look, I want to hear you and your friends out.” Bill says, “I just don’t know if it’s something I’ll ever enjoy.”

“Okay. I get that.” Holden says, pressing a gentle hand to his chest. “But you have to let me enjoy it. We have to keep living our lives and doing the things we like independently.”

“I know-” Bill begins, glancing away as his face grows hot. 

Holden gently catches him by the chin, turning his face back towards him. 

“Do you?” He whispers. 

Bill clenches his jaw. “Yes.”

“Just because I’m going to a gay bar doesn’t mean I want to hook up with someone. It doesn’t mean I’m going to cheat on you. But it also doesn’t mean that I’m immune to people hitting on me. I know how to say ‘no’. . . I had just hoped you trusted me enough to realize that.”

Bill nods, pressing his eyes shut for a moment before looking up at Holden’s somber gaze. 

“Do you trust me?” Holden asks, softly. “Because if you don’t, then we seriously need to rethink what we’re doing here.”

“No, I do trust you. I shouldn’t have acted like I don’t.” 

“Okay.” Holden says, leaning down to press a kiss to Bill’s mouth. He chuckles softly, melting the tension. “On another note, that was honestly some of the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Bill laughs quietly despite the knot still unraveling in his chest. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“You’ve been holding back on me.” Holden murmurs, running his fingertip along Bill’s jawline. “You were like an animal just now.”

Bill purses his lips against a smile, his face warm with giddy heat that’s quickly melting the last of his frustration. 

“Why were you holding back?” Holden says, nudging his nose against Bill’s. 

“I don’t know. I won’t anymore.”

“Good.” Holden whispers, melding the affirmation into a kiss. 

Bill wraps his arm tighter around Holden’s waist, dragging him into the slow, deep kiss with fresh appreciation. He wants to say so much - that Holden makes him want to throw aside all of his fears and inhibitions; that no matter how wounded his pride gets, he’d never want to stay angry; that he’s seen life without Holden, and he never wants to live that experience again. But maybe the apology was enough for tonight. Maybe this kiss can say all the things he can’t yet speak. Maybe in time, Holden will lead him out of the dark and into the light, and he won’t ever have a reason to be afraid again. 


	54. infinite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from ashtheironbat: Bill and Holden are at home and they're both a little tipsy and Holden talks Bill into slow dancing with him

When Holden wakes on Saturday morning, the mellow, morning sunlight creeping across the unoccupied side of his bed illuminates the vacancy in a way that makes his chest tighten. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the dust motes sailing, hitting bare skin, the radiating warmth of body heat, hands winding around his waist to pull him closer. But he’s never liked feeling needy or dependent on anyone - not until recently. 

He tries to set aside the lonely patter of his thoughts, but when he goes into the kitchen to put some breakfast together, his gaze settles nervously on the telephone. 

Last weekend, it was Bill’s turn having Brian. The week before that, Holden was over at Bill’s house, and they were making out on the couch. It seems like a small eternity ago, almost unbearable. He wants to call and invite himself over, but Bill has never been the doting type. He doesn’t appreciate clingy behavior or other people invading his personal space. This thing between them is still too new for that kind of closeness. 

Holden dispels the thought of calling, and turns his attention to making breakfast. Afterward, he busies himself by checking the contents of the refrigerator and deciding he needs to stop at the grocery store. 

On the weekend, the store is fairly busy, and he takes his time shuffling down the crowded aisles and ticking items off his list once they hit the cart. He trolls the familiar shelves by rote, allowing his mind to wander and predict the rest of the day. Maybe he’ll go for a run later or settle in with a book. More than likely, he’ll end up pouring over the case files he brought home with him. Relaxing has never come easy to him, just like the vulnerability of missing someone. 

When Holden gets back to his apartment, juggling two paper sacks of groceries and his keys, the shrill ring of his telephone reaches past the front door. Muttering a curse, he sets down one sack in order to unlock the door, and quickly drags the groceries inside. The telephone continues ringing as he knocks the door shut, stumbles past the grocery sacks into the kitchen, and swipes for the receiver. 

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Bill’s voice reaches from the other end of the line, at ease and fond, shattering Holden’s dour mood in seconds. 

“Bill, hi.” Holden says, a smile pushing unbidden at his cheeks. 

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, I was just coming back from the store. It’s okay. What’s up?”

“Nothing, I was just thinking about you.”

Holden turns to lean his hips against the kitchen counter, and bites back a growing grin. “Really? That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“Because, I was thinking about you.” Holden says, clutching the phone tighter as nervous butterflies rouse in his belly. 

“Were you, now?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well, it seems like we’re on the same page then.” Bill says, his tone modest yet holding a note of anticipation.

“About what?”

“You coming over tonight.”

The butterflies explode, not painfully but joyously. Holden purses his lips, but he can’t help the excited grin that stretches across his mouth. 

“That sounds great.” He says, attempting not to betray his over-eagerness. 

“Yeah?” Bill asks, the relief in his voice matching the warmth in Holden’s chest. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel. I know last week in New Hampshire was hard on you. I figured you’d want to rest-”

“No.” Holden says, quickly. “Not at all. I want to come over.”

“Great. We don’t have to do anything crazy.” Bill says, “Order some take-out, watch a movie …”

“Yeah, that all sounds good. When do you want me to come over?”

“I’ve got some chores around the house to finish up. How does five o’clock sound?”

“Good. Perfect.”

“Okay. See you then.”

After they hang up, Holden stands in the middle of the kitchen with a bewildered smile lingering on his face. His fears about coming off as too needy sink below the surface, leaving behind the warm hum of anticipation in his belly. The realization that Bill wants this -  _ them  _ \- just as much as he does rises up slowly right next to the bubbling excitement, but Holden doesn’t try to dwell on the particulars; he has to seize this moment while it lasts. 

~

Holden pulls his car into the driveway of Bill’s house at 4:45. He prefers to be early, but today’s punctuality exists more out of uncurbed enthusiasm rather than timely diligence. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from getting himself ready early and leaving his apartment ahead of schedule. He’s sure Bill won’t mind. 

Getting out of the car, he jogs up the front steps, and raps his knuckles on the front door. He doesn’t have to wait long before he hears Bill’s footfalls approach and the latch click open. 

Holden glances up from his shoes to see Bill holding the door open. He has a kitchen towel over his shoulder, and his cheeks are faintly flushed. Immediately, the mouth-watering scents of cooking dinner wafts from behind his shoulders. 

“Hi.” Bill says, his mouth fending off a smug smile. 

“Hi…” Holden says, slowly, a frown tugging at his brow. 

“Come on in.” 

Bill stands aside as Holden creeps across the threshold, pinning him with a curious gaze. 

“What smells so good?” Holden asks as Bill pulls the door shut behind him. 

Bill’s hand clasps his hip as he leans in to plant a warm kiss on Holden’s cheek. “Dinner.”

“Dinner?” Holden echoes, his brows rising. “You said we were going casual.”

“I know. I wanted to surprise you.”

“I’m practically in pajamas.” Holden protests, haplessly. “I would have dressed up if you told me you were making me dinner and-”

“Hey,” Bill interrupts, his eyes twinkling. “Hush, will you? I’m not worried about what you’re wearing.”

Holden purses his lips, and gently leans into Bill’s chest. Peeking up past his eyelashes and the flush climbing his cheeks, he murmurs, “Right. Sorry. I should be thanking you.”

“You can thank me later.” Bill whispers, planting a fleeting kiss on Holden’s mouth before he turns to go back into the kitchen. 

Holden trails behind him, his disbelief growing as he enters the kitchen to see the table set with the nice china dishware and a glass vase at the center that holds a large bouquet of purple and white flowers. 

“Wow.” Holden says, pausing in the doorway to gather himself. “Bill, this is …”

“A surprise?” Bill asks as he leans down to open the oven. 

“Yes. Very much so.”

Bill pulls the pot out of the oven, and sets it down on the top of the stove. When the lid comes off, the aromatic scent of seasoned pork roast makes Holden’s mouth water. 

“Then I succeeded.” Bill says, casting him a smile. 

Holden shuffles closer to the table, trying to curb his excitement as he bends over to smell the flowers. 

“Are these for me?”

“Yep.” Bill says, sounding casual as he carves into the roast. 

“Well, well. I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

“I’m not. But I figured you would appreciate it.”

“Why’s that? I don’t consider myself a romantic either.”

Bill casts him a dubious glance over his shoulder. 

“What? I’m not.” Holden protests. 

Bill smirks, and turns his attention back to plating the food. 

Holden sighs, and rubs one of the flower petals between his thumb and forefinger. “Well, I have to admit, they are nice. I hope you didn’t spend too much on them.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to ask how much a gift costs?”

“Yes. She also taught me not to kiss boys so …. We’re in new territory, aren’t we?”

Setting aside his fork and knife, Bill turns to catch Holden by the wrist and reel him in. Both arms wind around his waist, pulling him into a firm embrace. A shiver runs through him, leaving his knees weak and his hands clutching at the front of Bill’s shirt. The thrill of warmth ends in his belly when Bill’s eyes swallow him, then his mouth comes down to turn Holden’s world inside out and upside down. Dizzy, giddy satisfaction crushes through his veins at the first sweet dash of Bill’s mouth against his own, increasing to a dazed hum when the strokes deepen and Bill’s tongue slips against his palate. 

Holden clings to Bill’s chest until the kiss ends with a slick disconnect of lips and panting breath. He opens his eyes slowly, shuddering. 

Bill gazes down at him, a faint smirk resting on the damp corner of his mouth. “I’ve been thinking about doing that all day.” He murmurs. 

Holden flushes hotly, and chokes on a reply. 

Bill chuckles. “I guess your mom didn’t tell you how great kissing boys would be, huh?”

“Not in the slightest.” Holden whispers, offering a strangled laugh. 

“Come on.” Bill says, nudging him toward the table. “Sit down. Dinner’s ready.”

Holden sinks to his chair, grateful for the support now that his legs have been turned to jelly. Part of him had meant to come here tonight feeling in control of emotions and sexually powerful. He’d meant to accept Bill’s invitation, but not act too eager. Ten minutes into the evening and he’s ready to faint like a virgin, longing for another kiss, longing for more - Bill’s hands all over his body, making him forget everything his mother ever taught him. 

After Bill sets the dinner plates in front of them and pours them each a glass of wine, he sits down across from Holden with a pleased sigh. 

“Go ahead.” He urges as Holden toys with his fork. 

“This looks really good.” Holden says, leaning forward to apply his fork and knife to the pork. 

Bill watches eagerly as he takes a bite and the tender, juicy flavor fills his mouth. 

“Mm, wow. It tastes really good, too.” Holden says around the bite. 

“Good.” Bill says, taking up his own fork. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

They both fall quiet for a few moments as they eat, the quiet clink of silverware on china filtering above the rush in Holden’s ears. He peeks past the bouquet of flowers, feeling his chest swelling and opening the same as the soft petals. It’s difficult to hold onto his stubborn sense of self-sustainability when Bill is treating him this way, making him dinner, giving him flowers, kissing him intimately in a way he knows he’ll never be kissed by anyone else again; but a part of him still clings to his jaded cynicism, the scar tissue on his heart that warns him nothing good lasts forever. 

“Bill …” Holden whispers. 

“Yeah?” Bill mutters, glancing up from his plate with a warm, expectant gaze. 

“Thank you. This is amazing. It feels too good to be true, actually.”

Bill’s mouth tilts with a soft smile. “I know. But it is.”

“In ten years …” Holden says, drawing in a shaky breath. “Are you going to cook me dinner like this?”

Bill’s eyes soften, and his chest rises with a staggered breath. Setting his fork and knife down, he rubs a hand over his mouth. 

“You, um … You think we’re going to be together like this in ten years?” 

“Well, I … I think so.” Holden says, hurriedly. “I mean, I hope so.”

“Yeah.” Bill says, his voice quietly choked. “Me, too.”

Holden lowers his head, pressing his eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears. Bill’s hand creeps across the table to clutch over his knuckles, grounding him into this moment that feels too perfectly constructed for his reality. 

“You okay?” Bill asks, gently. 

Holden nods, swiping briskly at his eyes. “Yes, fine. Good, actually.”

“Okay, good. That’s a relief. I didn’t think I was  _ that _ rusty in the kitchen.”

Holden chokes on a laugh, and shakes his head. “No, it’s not the food. The food is amazing. You’re amazing, I just-”

He stops as their eyes meet across the table, and he realizes he’s shown too much - more than he ever has with anyone else. In just a few minutes, his walls have crumbled to the ground. 

He clears his throat of the forming knot, and manages a calm expression. 

“It’s just that good things normally don’t last long for me.” He says, “Everything has always felt temporary.”

Bill’s brow knits with concern and determination. He gives Holden’s hand another squeeze. 

“Well,” He says, “It isn’t this time.”

  
  


~

After the dishes are cleared away and the bottle of wine is diminished to a few lingering sips, Bill and Holden relax on the couch with the television playing at low volume and a Sinatra record spinning on the turntable. 

Holden isn’t paying much attention to the sports cast debating the upcoming football draft as he cuddles underneath Bill’s arm, his cheek pressed to Bill’s chest. Bill’s fingertips wander up and down the back of his arm, rousing warm tingles down his spine while the other hand guides a cigarette to and from his lips. 

Tilting his head back, Holden studies Bill’s face in the low light, the familiar edges of his jawline, his bladed cheekbones, his eyes as moody as incoming rain. He knows these planes and slopes well, has memorized each facet through sleepless, lovelorn midnights. He thought he knew everything there was to know about Bill, but tonight surprised him - and his morning concerns that Bill might find him too needy or even annoying suddenly seem ridiculous. 

The record hums static for a moment before the next song starts, the sweet, languid opening notes of “The Way You Look Tonight.”

Hesitation cast aside, Holden sits bolt upright from Bill’s chest, and clutches his arm. 

“I love this song.”

Bill’s attention breaks from the television to pin Holden with a bemused smile. “Yeah. It’s a good one.”

“It’s one of my mom’s favorite songs.” Holden says, climbing to his feet. “We used to slow dance to it in the kitchen.”

“There you go with your mom again.”

“She has good music taste. Obviously.” Holden says, tugging on Bill’s hand. “Come on.”

“Come where?” 

“Come on. Dance with me.” Holden says, offering his most imploringly coy gaze. 

“Oh, no.” Bill says, shaking his head. “I think I’ve fulfilled enough romantic duties for tonight.”

“Duties? You seemed pretty pleased with yourself.”

“Yeah, well. You said you weren’t a romantic either.” 

“Maybe I lied a little.” Holden says, giving Bill’s hand another firm tug. “Please?”

Bill gives a labored sigh, but quickly sets aside his cigarette and climbs to his feet. 

“Here.” Holden says, guiding Bill’s left hand to his hip and catching the right hand in his own grasp. “I’ll lead.”

“Holden, I know how to dance.” Bill says, flipping their hands over so that his is on top.

“Do you?” 

“Yeah, it’s just been awhile.” 

Holden purses his mouth shut as Bill’s palm flattens against his lower back, drawing him so close that their mouths nearly collide. A chuckle rises up in his belly, the last of his misgivings melting away beneath the duress of Bill’s embrace and half a bottle of a wine simmering in his veins. It feels too good to resist now that he’s wrapped up in Bill’s arms, their bodies swaying against one another while Sinatra croons a saccharine, lovesick melody. 

They’re quiet through the first verse as they rock back and forth, turning in a slow circle in the middle of the living room carpet. Holden wraps his arm tighter around Bill’s shoulders, and lowers his head to the warm cradle of Bill’s neck. 

“I have a confession.” He whispers as the song swells into the chorus. 

“Hmm?” 

“I thought about calling you this morning before you called me.” Holden whispers, lifting his head from Bill’s neck to cast him a sheepish smile. “But I didn’t want to seem clingy.”

“Clingy?” Bill echoes. “Why would you seem clingy?”

“Well, we see each other every day at work, and we were just together all weekend the other week. I just thought-”

“That I didn’t miss you?” 

Holden pauses, his throat knotting again. “Well, um … yes.”

“I missed you a lot when you were in New Hampshire.” Bill says, leaning in to kiss Holden’s lower lip softly. “I do every time we have to go out of town for work.”

Holden leans into the kiss, but Bill’s mouth only strokes softly for a few moments before he pulls back, his forehead nudging against Holden’s. 

“Can I be completely honest with you right now?”

“Yes, of course.” 

“Good.” Bill says, his hand squeezing against Holden’s lower back. “Because I don’t want to waste anymore time. I’ve wasted years, you know. Years I can’t get back.”

Holden frowns, feeling his chest begin to quiver. “Years?”

“Yes. Years without this - without you.” Bill says, glancing away with a coarse scoff as the words choke in his throat. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Holden murmurs, leaning closer. 

They’ve stopped dancing, but their hands are still clasped in mid-air. Holden doesn’t feel like letting go of Bill’s hand. 

“I don’t know.” Bill says, “I guess I thought this would be easier if I persuaded you with dinner and flowers and wine.”

“Persuaded me?” Holden echoes. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, shifting a misty gaze back to Holden. He draws in a slow breath. “But you’re going to make me say it out loud, aren’t you?”

Holden swallows hard. There’s a buzzing in his ears that doesn’t quite feel like panic. His belly is surging, flipping. They’re rushing towards a precipice that they can’t turn back from. He’s carving out pieces of himself and handing them over. Willingly. They both are. 

“Look,” Bill says, lowering his head again, “I know it’s hard for both of us to say how we feel, but I can’t keep pretending that this is some kind of phase or fling or- … It means more than that to me, and you were talking about ten years from now so I know it does to you too.”

Holden adjusts his grasp on Bill’s hand. Both of them are sweaty with nerves, but he doesn’t want to let go. 

Bill lifts his head. His eyes are clear, resolute. There’s a pause, not the quiet before a destructive storm but the anticipation before a deliverance of rain. 

“I love you.” Bill says, quietly. 

Holden draws in a hitched breath, and tears instantly sting his eyes. Overwhelmed, he buries his face in Bill’s neck, and wraps both arms around his shoulders. Sinatra’s serenade swells below the surge of his heartbeat, the broken, lonely pieces of himself coming back together again. 

Bill holds him close until he can breathe again, until he can look up and look into Bill’s eyes without crumbling entirely. 

“I love you, too.” Holden chokes out, a tear streaking down his cheek in the same moment that he begins to laugh for joy. 

“You do?” Bill asks, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Yes.” Holden nods, pressing a series of affirming kisses to Bill’s mouth, mumbling the response again and again into the narrow space between their mouths. 

Bill’s hand strokes away the last of his tears before it takes up Holden’s hand into the dancing position again. As they begin to sway once more, Holden nestles his cheek against Bill’s shoulder. His mind goes quiet, not for the first time, but for the first time in a very long time, in so long that he’d almost forgotten what this kind of contentment feels like. Relief rushes through him, a nebulous epiphany of bliss. In this moment, he can see every second of the future, the two of them together just like this. Nothing lasts forever, but some things are infinite. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Giving someone purple flowers means love at first sight/ enchantment. Yes, I love being a mushy, romantic bitch 🥰💜


	55. moving mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from LoveIsLove on tumblr asking for Bill sucking Holden off before the very first Kemper interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warning: graphic sexual content**

The morning after drinks at the Jury Room, Holden rises early, eager to be on his way to Vacaville to interview Ed Kemper. He would have preferred to do some digging into the public records on the case beforehand, but Jim Conor had told him everything he could remember about the case; and besides, he has to jump on this opportunity since it may never arise again. 

He goes into the bathroom to relieve himself, and when he comes back out, Bill is awake and sitting on the edge of his bed. 

“You’re up early.”

“I’m going to Vacaville.” Holden says as he pulls a change of clothes out of his bag. 

“Seriously?” Bill asks. “I thought you might be kidding.”

Holden shakes his head soberly. “Why would I be kidding?”

“Right.” Bill mutters, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Why would you be kidding? You’re crazier than you look, you know?”

“Crazy as in jumping on this opportunity while I have the chance?”

“No, crazy as in calling it an opportunity.”

Holden can feel Bill’s gaze on his back as he heads for the bathroom. He leaves the door open behind him while he hangs his clean suit on the doorknob, and turns on the shower to let the water heat up. 

“I thought we should get an early start.” He says over the sound of the water. “If Kemper is as talkative as Jim said he is, we might be there for awhile.”

Bill appears in the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the frame and his hand braced on his hip. His gaze meets Holden’s in the mirror. “I already told you I’m not going. I’ll drive you over there, but I’m hitting the golf course.”

Holden turns around to cast him a disgruntled gaze. He crosses his arms. “Bill, this is huge.”

“Huge?”

“It could change everything.”

Bill pushes away from the doorframe, and crosses the short distance to where Holden is pouting by the sink. He invades Holden’s personal space with a defiant, grim smile tugging at his mouth. Both hands grip the edge of the counter on either side of Holden’s hips, trapping him in place. 

“Now why would I want to go talk to Ed Kemper when we could stay here?”

Holden blinks, his face going hot. Before he can offer up a logical reply or even a witty retort, Bill leans in to kiss him firmly on his mouth. One hand rises to cradle his nape. The way his palm settles and adheres to the curve in Holden’s neck is perfect, as if both pieces had been set together in a mold. He leans willingly into it, his heart beating faster at the hot slip of Bill’s tongue against his lower lip. 

Bill pulls back, releasing Holden’s lower lip gradually from between his teeth until Holden breaks free, whimpering softly, skin humming. 

“I’m going.” He whispers, hoarsely. “You can’t change my mind.”

Bill sighs, his jaw shifting derisively to one side. “You’re so fucking stubborn.”

“And crazy?”

“Yeah. You’re really just gonna go in there and wing it talking to a homicidal maniac?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, then, you’re going to need every scrap of confidence you can get.”

Holden begins to open his mouth to question Bill on just how he should go about getting this confidence, but Bill kisses him again, swallowing the muted hum of surprise in the back of Holden’s throat. His hand trails down Holden’s chest and belly until he finds the waistband of his briefs. He tugs softly at the fabric for a moment before letting his palm curl over the front of the underwear where Holden is gradually growing hard. 

Their mouths slip apart, but Bill stays close. His breath spills in humid gusts against Holden’s flushing cheeks as he rubs the heel of his hand into Holden’s pulsing cock. 

“Ohh …” Holden moans, quietly, his eyes squeezing shut against the sudden, immense pleasure. “Bill, fuck-”

Bill’s fingers crawl under the fabric, up against naked skin. In seconds, Holden goes from being slightly aroused to throbbing with crashing desire. He rises on his toes, and pushes into the languid caress of Bill’s hand casually jerking him. 

Bill chuckles softly against his cheek as Holden gasps and whines. “You like that, hm?”

“Yes. God, yes.” Holden moans, leaning into the counter for support as his knees go weak. 

“You want my mouth?”

Holden’s eyes spring open, and he’s looking directly into Bill’s hazy blue eyes. They’re so close that their foreheads are nearly touching, mouths grazing with transient kisses and gasping breaths. Bill has never asked him that question before. He’s just always done it. Pinned Holden down against the bed and sucked him dry. Not like this. 

“Yes.” Holden whispers, the confidence Bill had spoken of swelling in his chest. “On your knees.”

Bill’s mouth tilts triumphantly. His eyes are heavy-lidded and fierce as he lowers himself to his knees in front of Holden. His fingers drag Holden’s briefs away as he goes lower, tugging them free of his jutting cock until they’re forgotten, sinking around his knees and then his ankles. 

Holden bites back a cry as Bill’s fingers wrap around the root of his cock, guiding it toward his mouth. He clings to the edge of the counter while his body rides high on a wave of fiery arousal. Just watching Bill kneeling below him, staring up at him like _that_ \- like sucking Holden’s cock is his only goal for the day - is making the arousal ten times more intense than it usually is. 

Bill breathes hotly against the swollen cockhead while his palm drags slowly, sweetly down the shaft. He watches Holden intently, the minute shift of need on his face, the tension rippling across his jawline, the helpless quiver of his mouth. He catalogues it all while he breathes steadily, wetting his lips with his tongue. 

A plea is rising up in Holden’s throat just as he leans forward. Then Holden watches, his gaze hanging desperately onto the pink gleam of Bill’s lower lip, as his mouth opens. It takes him in confidently, until Bill’s has a mouthful; and he begins to suck, cheeks hollowing around the thick shaft of Holden’s cock, lips glistening wet and stretched. He groans in the back of his throat, creating delicious vibrations that travel down into the smallest nerve-endings, making Holden’s insides want to bolt free of his belly. 

“Oh my God …” Holden moans, hips arching toward the divine, warm, wet pressure. 

Bill’s eyelids shutter in concentration. He doesn’t look back up again as he sets himself to the task, giving Holden everything - the swift, wet glide of his mouth, the erotic swirl of his tongue, the decadent pressure that comes off and on so that Holden is dangling on the verge of orgasm but not coming just yet. His hand is steady around the base, reeling Holden in and out, controlling the pace absolutely. 

Holden can’t find the will the assert any kind of dominance over the encounter even though Bill had talked of confidence. He leans helplessly into the counter until the cheap formica is cutting into his lower back, but he can’t feel anything except the incredible slick heat of Bill’s mouth swallowing him again and again. 

He’s panting and dizzy, taut and on the edge of coming, when Bill draws back to the tip. The cockhead pops free of his mouth, aching and twitching against his searing breath. Holden’s eyelids trip open, and he glances down at Bill only to whine breathlessly at the sight of his mouth swollen and pink from friction. 

“God, you’re so close I can taste it.” He says, his voice all low and throaty. “You sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

“Fuck you.” Holden says, managing a choked laugh as he shakes his head. “That isn’t fair.”

Bill chuckles. “Don’t worry, I’m going to finish it. Can’t send you off to Ed Kemper with a hard dick.”

“_Fuck_ you.” Holden repeats, tilting his head back and drawing in a shaky breath. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a serial murderer.”

“Not at all.” Bill whispers, his tongue swiping a thick stripe across the leaking head of Holden’s cock. 

“Oh, Jesus.” Holden gasps, shooting a harried glance down at Bill’s smirking expression. He latches a hand at Bill’s nape to pull him forcefully forward. “Can you hurry it up?”

Bill smiles again just before he sucks Holden’s cock back into his mouth. The secondary wave of wet heat is almost more incredible than the first as it hits Holden’s raw, screaming nerves and achingly aroused flesh. His hips leap up into the pressure, accidentally leaning a bit too hard. Bill chokes quietly on his cock, and Holden leans back, muttering an apology just before Bill guides his hips close again. 

“Go on,” He mutters, drawing back, lips dripping saliva, voice choked from friction. His eyes are watering as he casts Holden a beckoning gaze. “I know you want it harder than that.”

Holden stares at him briefly for a few seconds before he clutches Bill by the nape to pull them around. When he has Bill’s back up against the sink cabinet, he braces one hand against the edge of the counter to steady himself while he thrusts his hips forward. 

He watches through half-shut eyes as Bill’s hand slips beneath his boxers even as his eyes squeeze shut against the rough onslaught of Holden’s cock in his mouth. Then the pleasure of it is too much, and Holden can’t force his eyelids open against the blinding roar of pleasure rising up in his belly. The need boils over, harder and faster than he’d expected. 

“Fuck. I’m coming. I’m coming.” He groans, pulling back abruptly. 

As he sinks down, he grabs at his spilling cock. The pleasure is so blinding that he doesn’t feel the tile against his kneecaps, only the sweet, deep spasms clamping hard through his middle and the burst of white behind his eyelids. He leans his forehead against Bill’s shoulder while the climax hangs on. He’s coming all over the floor, on Bill’s thighs, himself. His body is flush with endorphins, the kind of euphoria that makes him feel like he could move mountains. 

_So Bill’s plan worked._ Holden thinks as the heavy haze of orgasm lifts. 

His eyelids creep open to glimpse Bill staring at his wrecked expression, breathing in thready gasps as he works his hand over his big, hard cock. Holden drops his head to Bill’s lap to catch the bobbing, thick length in his mouth. 

“Jesus-” Bill chokes out, grabbing at Holden’s hair. 

He always likes to mess up his hair. Loves to run his fingers through the neat styling and call Holden a boy scout. He doesn’t feel like much of a boy scout right now. He feels like the guy who is going to walk into Vacaville, throw down his badge, and make some kind of history. 

Half an hour later, after Holden gets a shower and they’re both cleaned up, Bill is still acting grumpy. But he does offer Holden some interesting pieces of advice about the impromptu interview that Holden hadn’t thought of. 

As they drive over to the prison, Bill smokes his cigarette and squints at the road ahead from behind his aviators. Holden thinks he looks terribly good in his casual clothes. If he hadn’t thought interviewing Kemper was of such importance, he would have taken the weekend to lay around in bed letting Bill suck him off repeatedly. Their feverish fling is still in its infant stages, though, and it has that heady taste of hubris that makes Holden think it’s going to last forever. There will be plenty more days like this morning; today, he has to go move a mountain.


	56. and I'd hate to fade alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from bambikieran/furorem : Holden calls Bill after having a panic attack while in Atlanta.

A brief yet unsettling nightmare wakes Bill with a jolt. He was once again treading through the lightning dust to the basement of the house on Cimarron Court. It was pure daylight, full of warm sun. When he reached the place where he’d witnessed the chalky shape of a cross laden with a toddler’s fragile form, instead of a cleaned-out crime scene, he laid eyes on Brian hunched over a squirming figure.

Brian is a small kid - doesn’t look capable of anything violent; but behind Bill’s eyelids, he saw the worst possible version of what happened that day the boy died. His son - his own chosen child - smothering the life from the baby. In the dream, Brian looks up from the arduous task, his dark eyes gleaming with infernal impulse.

“Dad,” he says, calmly. “Is the fish dead yet?”

Bill is awake in the next instant, his heart thundering against his ribs and sweat itching in the creases of his armpits and down his back. His mouth is dry, tasting of the three beers he washed down before passing out on the couch.

It takes him a moment to convince himself it was a product of his mind encumbered by stress and fatigue and dread, and nothing more. When he gets his bearings again, he realizes that the clock on the wall isn’t indicating the afternoon but well past one o’clock in the morning. The only light Nancy had left on when she went to bed was the lamp beside the couch. The kitchen and dining area are draped in shadow, familiar fixtures undefined and murky and disconnected from his little pool of yellow light.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the couch, Bill sits up slowly with a groan, and scrubs his hands over his face. The next logical step is getting up from the couch to walk himself to bed where his weary heap of bones belong, but the lingering dread in the pit of his stomach keeps him chained in place.

He isn’t certain when coming home on the weekends from Atlanta began feeling like a second job, but the joylessness is inescapable. Facing Nancy with the noble reassurance that he’s trying to save the lives of children no longer seems feasible just like facing Holden with the lie that he’s dedicated enough to his family to be flying home every weekend for no other reason than to spend time with them had reached the end of it’s credibility.

Perhaps that’s why going back to Atlanta now seems like less work than coming home. In a few short months, his life had become a careful manipulation, a tight-rope walk of convincing everyone in Atlanta, Quantico, and here at home of a specific narrative. While in Atlanta, don’t mention Brian. While at home, don’t mention Atlanta. At Quantico, don’t mention either one. The drive to keep his stories straight burned exhaustion through him like a hot fuse. At least now he isn’t bold-faced lying to Holden.

Rousing himself from the couch, Bill grabs his cigarettes from the side table, and ambles into the darkness of the kitchen. He doesn’t bother to turn on a light as he finds the cupboard by memory, and fills a glass with water from the tap. He washes away the stale taste of beer, and when his throat is no longer aching, replaces it with the heat and nicotine of a cigarette.

Standing over the kitchen sink, he taps ashes down the drain, and studies the night sky beyond the window. Constellations emerge against a tapestry of black, unhindered by clouds. In the silence, despite Nancy and Brian sleeping only a few walls away, he feels utterly alone.

The shrill ring of the telephone jars him from his sinking malaise. He has little time to ponder just who the hell would be calling this late at night as he rushes to grab the receiver and stop it’s ringing from waking Nancy or Brian.

“Hello?”

Raspy, labored breathing rustles across the line, startling his defenses.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Bill …” Holden whispers, his voice low and trembling, nearly unrecognizable. “Don’t hang up.”

Instant worry seizes Bill’s chest, those hassled defenses migrating into protective alarm. “I’m not. Are you okay?”

He hears Holden swallow thickly.

“It’s so late. Did something happen?” Bill presses.

“I … No.” Holden’s hesitation shines dishonesty clearly through the affirmation.

"Then why are you calling me?”

Silence registers across the miles of phone line between them, but Bill can hear the slight hiccup in Holden’s breathing, the undercurrent of distress that he recognizes because he’s been feeling it bubbling up within his own chest for weeks.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“No, it’s okay.”

Bill presses his eyes shut as the rushed reassurance rouses another bout of silence, this one rife with confusion.

“It is?” Holden asks, at last.

“Yeah, of course. Look, Holden, I know things have been … rocky between us lately, but I know you care about this case. I know it’s been hard on you.”

“And you,” Holden whispers, carefully.

Bill takes a drag of his cigarette, and steadily exhales smoke past pursed lips. The nicotine doesn’t have the calming affect he’s searching for. Despite his honesty last week, he and Holden haven’t spoken about what happened with Brian. Part of him knows they should, but as the prospect approaches now it twists the knot in his gut tighter.

“Yeah,” he mutters at length.

“If it makes you feel any better, you hid it incredibly well. I had no idea.”

“It doesn’t, but thanks.”

“Got any tips?” Holden asks, offering a hapless chuckle.

“What? For lying to everyone and pretending I’m fine?”

“Yes.”

“None that I’d wish on anyone … least of all a friend.”

Holden’s muted sigh is tremulous. “Are we still … friends?”

Bill adjusts his grip on the phone, and bends to brace his elbows against the edge of the counter. Staring down at the ashes dwindling into the sink, he tries to come up with a response that doesn’t make him the bad guy in this situation. His thoughts are nothing more than an empty roar, taken by exhaustion and panic.

“I want us to be. Is that good enough?” he asks.

“Yes,” Holden agrees, his tone perking up. “I can live with that.”

“Then I guess I should apologize for lying to you and pretending everything was fine.”

“Mhm.”

“So … I’m sorry.”

“Me too. If I’d known-”

“But you didn’t.”

“I could have been a better profiler. Instead, I’ve been completely wrapped up in my own shit. You know, I’ve never felt more alone than I do right now, surrounded by the dozens of people who are on this task force. God, I really miss those early days when it was just you and me on the road.”

Bill’s instinctive reply is, “why would you miss me?” But he bites it down because he misses Holden too, and maybe he’s still too burdened by pride to admit it.

“Those were the days,” he says, instead.

“We weren’t so alone then,” Holden sighs, then stifles a yawn.

“You sound tired. I should let you go.”

“No, it’s just … it’s the Valium sinking in.”

Bill chest flinches at the mention of medication, the insinuation it invites - that Holden’s first impulse after surviving a panic attack was to call him.

“Are you okay?” he asks once more.

“I guess I would be lying and pretending I’m fine if I said ‘yes.’”

“Probably.”

“It’s okay. You can ask me about it.”

Bill draws in a slow breath against buzzing nerves. This isn't them. They don’t ask each other personal questions or talk about it. Holden is floating out of reality on benzodiazepine and Bill is too morbidly curious about someone else’s pain rather than his own; but it’s late and they’re both loath to fade alone.

“Does it happen often?” Bill asks, softly.

“Hmm … yes. Not enough to impede me from doing my job, but more often than I’d like.”

“What triggers it?”

“Sometimes the obvious things - a bad dream, a bad thought, a crime scene, a smiling picture of a kid who I know is dead and died terribly. Sometimes nothing. It’s unpredictable - that’s in the nature of panic disorder.”

“But the Valium helps?”

“It does damage control.”

Bill nods, biting the inside of his cheek as he processes this information. What he’d said by the riverside lashes across the back of his mind, and it looks utterly cruel from this perspective.

“What does it feel like?” he asks, closing his eyes against the surroundings of the kitchen.

He waits with bated breath while Holden thinks. His lungs burn with anticipation as if to say “ sell me your pain; let’s make a fair trade of it; you try on mine, I’ll try on yours.”

“It feels like … suffocating. Very slowly. My lungs hurt, my head hurts. I can’t think or breathe, and I feel very small and trapped and …”

“And what?”

“Helpless.”

“Sounds awful.”

“It is. Even if it only lasts a few minutes, I come out of it feeling like I ran a marathon. I’m exhausted for the rest of the day, but when I lay down, I can’t sleep. My mind races.”

“That’s why you called me?”

“Well, I couldn’t get up off the floor, but I could drag the telephone and the Valium off the nightstand,” Holden murmurs. “I wanted something to hold onto.”

Bill clenches his jaw as he imagines Holden lying on the hotel floor in his pajamas, his pallor white and clammy with sickness, his body trembling. He wants to say that if he were there now, he would leave his own room and come over, he’d pick Holden up off the floor. They could hold onto each other.

When he opens his eyes, however, he sees that he’s still standing in his dark kitchen, and the only warm body to hold onto within touching distance wants nothing to do with him right now.

“There isn’t much left,” he says with a grim chuckle. “For you to, you know … hold onto.”

“Because of what happened?” Holden asks, gingerly. “With Brian?”

Bill smothers his rising hackles. Holden opened the door by offering to talk about his panic attacks, but Bill had kicked it wide open by even asking the questions. Talking about Brian is quid pro quo. Now all that’s left is putting a price tag on his own pain.

“Ever since it happened, I’ve just been trying to hold everything together. Here at home, Quantico, down there in Atlanta. It’s like there isn’t enough of me to go around, and I keep cutting myself into smaller and smaller pieces, dividing them across the problems I need to control. You were right when you told me I was distracted, that I wasn’t there when I was there. Truth is, I can hardly focus on one thing. Every time I close my eyes or my thoughts wander just a little, it goes back there - to a baby dying, and my kid saying absolutely nothing about it to me or Nancy.”

Holden is quiet for a moment before breaching the invisible wall. “How did it happen?”

Bill inhales a steadying breath, and blinks against the sting at the corners of his eyes. “A group of them were playing in the park. They ended up over at the house Nancy is the realtor for. Things got out of hand. The older boys somehow suffocated the toddler. They put him in the basement of the house, but … they didn’t just leave him. They - well Brian - he-”

“What did he do?” Holden asks, his tone lacking condemnation but rather perking with twisted curiosity.

“There was some old flooring in the basement. They made it into a cross, laid the baby across it like … like he was Jesus, and he was going to somehow fucking rise from the dead. It was all Brian’s idea. It was …”

Holden’s breathing quickens against the line. “God, Bill-”

“How do I reconcile that? How do I fucking forgive him? It was  _week_ _s_ before they found him, Holden. Brian left a baby lying there for weeks, and said  _nothing_ . I mean what the hell is wrong with someone who does something like that?”

“Maybe he was scared-”

“No, he knows he can come to us. We’ve never mistreated him, hit him, yelled at him. Never once made him think he couldn’t talk to us.”

Holden falls quiet.

The silence over the line thickens, and pretense falls away. Bill can hear the normal reassurances splinter. Holden studies the mind, and he understands darkness. He can read Bill’s fears even from across the country - and he recognizes their validity.

“You think he didn’t feel anything?” Holden asks. “That he’s just like the subjects in our study.”

Bill’s throat chafes with mounting emotion. He hasn’t dared admit it to himself, but it is what he thinks. It haunts his every nightmare.

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Bill, we don’t know everything. Especially when it comes to children. Remember when we talked about intervention, and we wondered if somewhere along the line, something could have been done to stop these men from killing?”

“Yes.”

“This is the time to do something. Get him help. Nothing is written in stone.”

Bill rubs his eyes hard. “You really believe that?”

“Aren’t we beholden to at least try?”

_Try. _ Yes, all he has done for the last few months is try, but that is the god-forsaken truth of the human condition. Trying, and trying, failing and trying. Learning one or two things along the way. It’s inescapable.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

“You’re welcome.”

They sit in silence for a long moment.

It feels better with some of the weight off Bill’s chest. He imagines it will be back in the morning. All the more reason not to hang up.

Holden yawns softly against the receiver, his rustling breath prickling down Bill’s spine. He presses the phone closer to his ear, and waits for the indolent moan at the end. When it comes, low and throaty, it doesn’t last nearly long enough.

“Tired?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Wanna go to bed?”

"No. Do you?”

“No. We can keep talking.”

“Okay. About what?”

“Something else,” Bill suggests, angling for a lighter tone. “Something not so fucking depressing.”

“Okay. Here’s something.” Holden’s voice takes on an impish tone. “A few weeks ago, I threw your betting sheets out the window of the car.”

“What?” Bill asks, a choked laugh fighting its way past the calcified emotion in his chest. “I wondered where those went.”

“You weren’t talking to me then. Christ, that makes me sound bitchy doesn’t it?”

“Yep. It does.”

“Fine. But since when do you bet on ponies?”

Bill bites his lower lip. This conversation isn’t heavy enough for honesty, at least not yet. It isn’t important for the truth that he hadn’t been interested in racing until Ted Gunn plopped the analogy in his brain right next to the trigger points that are Holden.

“Not long,” he says. “Just something to distract myself. Mindless entertainment.”

“With a price tag.”

“Everything has a price tag. It’s just a matter of scale.”

“What’s the price tag on this conversation?”

“Nothing. It’s an even trade.”

Holden hums something indistinct.

“What?” Bill asks. “You want me to take something from you?”

“Or I could take something from you.”

“You already took my betting sheets.”

Holden laughs, softly. “I did. Okay, what do you want?”

Bill’s levity disappears into a panicked, heady ether. Before Atlanta, he’d often wished for Holden to say those exact words for him; then his world came crashing down, and those wayward thoughts were available to blame for his own lack of dedication to his family. Holden was an easy target for a rage he doesn’t have the will to hold onto anymore.

“I want you to take care of yourself,” Bill says, finally. “Get some rest.”

Holden sighs, unhappily. “It  is  almost two o’clock.”

“Exactly. I’ll be back tomorrow. We can talk then if you want.”

“Really?”

Yeah, as long as we can both keep our eyes open. This surveillance is killing me.”

“Don’t worry. We’re going to get him. If not tomorrow, then the next night.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Well …. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bill.”

They linger a moment longer before muttering further goodbyes. When the phone hits the cradle, a deep and abiding silence replaces the hiss of static across the line and the warm cadence of Holden’s voice. Outside the window, the stars are the same even as time marches forward, dragging him towards an inevitable precipice. It’s some small comfort that he won’t be making that fall into the abyss alone.


End file.
